


Another Kind of Pop Song

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Musicians, Pop Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pine has never wanted anything more than to be a successful musician, and with the help of his best friend and co-songwriter Zoe, his star is on the rise. After a sudden end to his not-so-romantic relationship with his manager, he gets an offer to go on tour with Johnny Sugar (John Cho), an eccentric Korean popstar trying to crack the American market. Things don't go exactly as planned, and what starts as a six-week bus tour turns out to be the ride of Chris' life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Kind of Pop Song

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go out to starsandgraces, my gracious beta and overall cheerleader for this story—the one who was there when I said, "Maybe I could write a story where John Cho is a bitchy pop star!" and went, "OMG YESSSS." Also thanks to screamlet, who put up with a lot of my bitching over the past few months. And HUGE thanks to my awesome artist ryuutchi, who went all out and created art AND a mix for this. Oh, yes, and a Blingee. She was extremely patient with me as well, and for that, I am so grateful.
> 
> Anyway, it's a story about John Cho as a bitchy pop star! Hope you enjoy.

I.

"That's my final offer, Bill, and I'm not going any lower than—no, I won't take a shitting _money order_ , are you out of your fucking mind?"

Chris wakes to the familiar, nattering sound of Karl's negotiations. He pries his eyes open, sprawled close to the edge of the bed, and watches his bedmate-slash-manager pace around the room, wheeling and dealing with yet another sleazy local club owner. Chris lifts the arm already dangling off the mattress and brushes his fingers against Karl's shin when he gets close. Karl jumps in surprise and then smirks down at him, his eyes way too alert for nine-thirty in the morning.

"Fuck it," Chris murmurs, pausing to yawn. He rolls onto his back and tries to look as alluring as possible. "I’m naked. It’s a glorious thing. Come back to bed."

"Can't," Karl mouths, placing his hand over the receiver momentarily. He keeps looking at Chris as he continues his conversation, which Chris counts as a win. "Look, as I said, it's my final offer. You're already getting away with murder here. The guy's fucking incredible. He's the next John Mayer."

Chris groans and turns onto his side. "Oh, my god, _fuck you_. Never mind what I said; you're never allowed in this bed again."

There's a faint chuckle and then Karl's voice fades away as he moves into another room. Chris sighs and snuggles into his pillow, mentally pushing back the niggling, paranoid thoughts that always pop up whenever Karl's not around—namely that it's a really bad idea to sleep with the guy who makes his living by scoring Chris steady work. Zoe's told him so a million times, as if he didn't realize as much. He presses his face into the over-sized, Karl-scented pillow and recalls the snide tone of Zoe's voice, telling him in no uncertain terms, _Baby boy, when are you gonna learn? You don't mix business with pleasure_.

But then, what does Zoe know anyway? Karl is hot as hell and also a ton of fun in the sack—often because he does fun things _to_ Chris' sack. The thought makes Chris' cock stir with interest. Just as he settles into a warm, sleepy haze of arousal, Karl returns to the bed, spooning up behind him and kissing the back of his head.

"So you've got a gig on the 20th at the White Elephant."

"That place is a dump," Chris murmurs. He opens one eye and peers halfway back at Karl. "But I'll forgive you if you give me a handjob."

"Listen, Pine, a gig's a gig. And what makes you think I want or need your forgiveness? You could just as be well sitting at home on the 20th, searching your nostrils for interesting wads of snot." Karl nips Chris' shoulder then sucks lazily at the crook of his neck, a spot that makes Chris melt every time. Chris groans and lifts his hips, grabbing Karl's wrist to guide his hand where he wants it.

"And that would be preferable to the White fucking Elephant, so hurry up and jack me already."

"You know, I reckon you're my most demanding client." Obnoxious bastard that he is, Karl swipes a fingertip between Chris' ass cheeks, as if to ask, _Didn't I do enough last night?_ Chris gasps at the brush against his sensitive hole. He's just about to say something smarmy in reply when Karl's large hand closes gently around his cock and starts to stroke in a slow, lulling motion. It shuts him up nicely. Karl twists his hand and smiles. "And what do I get in return, anyway? Besides your invaluable forgiveness, that is?"

"I’ll write you a song," Chris says. His voice slurs only slightly as he sings, so that’s another win in his book. "Oh, Karl…you came and you touched my penis…"

"Don’t you mean I touched your penis and then _you_ came?" He swirls his thumb around the head and then slides it along the slit, momentarily reducing Chris’ voice to a desperate, needy gasp.

"Don’t mess with my artistic process," he manages to say.

Karl nips at his ear and presses close, his cock fitting snugly against Chris’ ass. "I would never. Your artistic process pays approximately zero of my bills; why would I want to mess with such a beautiful thing?"

Chris starts whining, just because he can’t help it. He wants to come—is going to come—and Karl’s voice is turning him on, even as the words coming out of his sultry mouth are pissing him off. He squirms and reaches back, swatting Karl’s ass so he’ll hurry up and get on with it. Probably a bad idea, since next thing he knows, he’s on his back with his hands pinned above his head, and his cock is just standing there, hard and flushed, alone in the wilderness.

"The fuck?" he hisses.

"You get so fussy when you’re close," Karl comments. "Like an over-stimulated puppy." He reaches for one of the condoms on the nightstand, then ignores Chris’ vague sounds of surprise as he rolls it on his dick, no longer neglected. "Is it messing with your process too much if you come inside of me instead of all over these ugly sheets?"

"Hey, my mom got me these sheets," Chris says. He watches in a daze as Karl straddles his hips, holding Chris’ cock by the base as he lines himself up. "You need me to…?" Chris asks, gesturing vaguely.

"Nah, took care of it earlier. Just stop talking about your mum and we’re good to go."

"I can do that," Chris says. And then everything following is unintelligible, what with Karl sinking down on his cock and the tight, hot goodness and the happy, shiny feelings making this the best morning ever. Maybe he’ll write Karl a song after all.

*

Chris has been writing music for almost twelve years now. He’s had a manager for one and a half of those years. He’s spent the entirety of those one and a half years also sleeping with said manager. Zoe has been his songwriting partner for about four years, and with every ounce of Zoe’s brilliance that finds its way into his work, there comes a healthy dose of judgment and sighing over his pseudo-relationship with Karl.

Plus, Zoe can always tell when Chris and Karl have just had sex. He figures there’s got to be a guilty look in his eyes that she notices, or at least some kind of tell that tips her off. Or maybe she’s just that good. She doesn’t miss a beat when he walks into the dimly lit coffee shop with his cap’s visor pushed down low and his sunglasses masking his eyes. She glances up from her notebook, looks him up and down, and shakes her head slowly.

"Pine, you’d better have bathed in between your fuckfest and our coffee date, or I’m gonna be pissed."

"Of course I bathed," Chris says. He takes off his sunglasses, puts down his guitar case, and sits, huffing at her indignantly. "How do you always know when I’ve had sex? Is it some kind of voodoo or witchcraft? Are your man-sex senses tingling? Am I walking funny?"

"A bit from columns A, B, and C." Zoe smirks and takes a sip of her giant cappuccino. "You know you need to stop this nonsense, don’t you? I know I’ve been saying so for over a year now, but it’s going to sink in one day really soon, right?"

"I _like_ him. He’s fun. Way more fun than this conversation, which we’ve now had about a zillion times. Gimme a sip of that."

"Get your own," Zoe says, pulling her mug close to her chest. "Or, what, are you too broke? What with all the gigs Karl _isn’t_ booking for you, due to spending all of his time with his dick in your mouth instead?"

"Maybe it's my dick in his mouth," Chris retorts. Though truth be told, it’s usually the other way around. He’s a generous guy. "Anyway, I’ll have you know that he just booked me a show on the 20th."

"Well, hey, that’s something. Where is it?" Chris exhales and looks off toward the counter, mumbling into the fabric of his hoodie. "Excuse me, _where_?" Zoe asks again, leaning forward.

Chris sighs. "The White Elephant, okay?"

"The White Elephant?" she repeats, sneering in disgust. "That place can barely hold five people. Plus, you could get hepatitis, just going in there. That’s the best he could do? The White fucking Elephant?"

"Look, it’s something, okay? And he tries. He’s been telling everyone that I’m the next John Mayer."

Zoe wrinkles her nose. "Speaking of hepatitis."

"Yeah. I know."

"Listen," Zoe says, softening. "Do you want me to spot you for a coffee? I’ll even spring for a latte."

Chris takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair. It used to be that he could buy his own coffee without any problems—he had some savings and his parents helped out once in a while, intent on seeing Chris through during his "artistic stage." But his career has been stagnant for a while, the savings are mostly gone, and he’s getting too embarrassed to call his dad and ask for help. It just means he has to devote most of his money to rent and forgo life’s little pleasures, like coffee and new clothes and meals that aren’t leftover Domino’s pizza.

"I’m okay," he says. He’s pretty sure Zoe’s already bought him four coffees this month and there comes a point when the phrase _I’m good for it_ begins to lose clout; when all parties involved know there’s no money in sight. "I had some coffee at home." Which is a lie. "Besides, I’m not really thirsty." Another lie.

"Uh huh. And you just demanded a sip of my drink because it seemed like the thing to do. You know, if Karl isn’t getting you work, he could at least provide you with a food budget."

"Zoe…"

"Nuh-uh. You’re my writing partner. If you wither away and die from malnutrition, where the hell does that leave me?" She reaches out and rubs Chris’ knee gently. "You’re too talented for this, Chris. I know you like Karl, but I say if he doesn’t get you something good by the end of the month, he’s out. Who knows, maybe Jonathan can find another manager for you."

Chris smiles and shakes his head. Zoe has been Jonathan Groff’s personal assistant for years. The guy’s a major theater star, they love each other to death, and yet she hasn’t managed to get up the guts to show him any of her own writing or even let him know that she can sing. She’s sold some lyrics here and there, and with a little help from Groff, she could be the next songwriter turned star, the next Lady Gaga. Still, she’s in this crummy coffee shop on her day off, bothering with Chris and his half-assed excuse for a career.

"Just show me your new stuff," Chris says, reaching out for her notebook. Zoe smiles and hands it over, and he takes a few minutes to scan the handwritten lyrics, nodding as he imagines an accompanying melody. "Shit. This is fucking _good_. You can’t give this song to me. Katy Perry or whichever flavor of the month should be singing this. Or, you know, _you_."

"Shut up," Zoe says, laughing shyly. She adjusts the barrette in her hair and shrugs. "I wrote it with you in mind, your voice. It doesn’t belong to anyone else."

Chris blushes faintly and hands the notebook back, then pulls his guitar from his case. He starts to pluck the melody in his head and Zoe nods along, singing the lyrics softly. Of course, they’re interrupted by Eric at the counter in his stupid purple apron, yelling loudly enough to interrupt everyone in the shop.

"Oi, Pine! Your serenade privileges are only valid when you actually buy a drink!"

"Eric, come _on_ ," Chris says, but then Zoe lifts a hand, digging out her wallet.

"Here. Make him a small latte, okay?" She hands Chris a five-dollar bill. "Will that be enough?"

"All right," Eric says, glancing between them. "But only because you’re cute, Saldana."

Chris snorts and considers the money in his hand. "You’re not sleeping with that guy, are you? Because if you are, the drinks should be free."

" _No_ ," Zoe says. It’s way too emphatic to be truthful. She curls up in her chair and pouts. "Now go get your drink before I let him throw your broke, John Mayer ass out."

"Low, very low."

She waves him off. "That’s what you get for telling me about it."

*

The White Elephant is, in fact, as dumpy as Chris remembers, and likely a good place to contract a disease—if you’re into that sort of thing. He learns that it does fit more than five people, but that’s only because eight people show up to his gig, one of them being Zoe and one being Karl. Chris plasters on a big smile, just like he’s supposed to, and powers through it. He knows that any audience, no matter the size, is still an audience. Word of mouth is important. Still, by the time he gets to his last song, most of the eight people are either standing at the bar or talking over the music.

"All right, I’ve got one more for you guys," Chris says, adjusting his guitar strap. He shrugs, surveying the scant audience. "Thanks for being a great… Well, thanks for being here. I guess."

Then he plays Zoe’s song. It’s called "Catch Fire" and it’s good. It’s really fucking good, because they worked hard on it together and they made it fucking good. Chris is pleased to notice as he sings that people actually start listening to him—the hapless dude with the acoustic guitar on stage. _Hey, yeah, remember me?_ he wants to ask them. A few people start nodding along and Karl gets this studious look on his face, like he’s trying to memorize what’s happening. When Chris is done, the applause is actually at a level that he can hear, which is a huge improvement from the rest of the set.

When he gets down from the stage, Zoe is waiting for him, all smiles. She practically leaps at him, pulling him into a hug.

"Oh, my god! It sounded _great_! I knew that song was made for you, baby, I just knew it!"

"Of course it sounded great. You’re a fucking genius, Zoe. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Zoe steps back, blushing fiercely. "Well, I mean, it’s just your voice. It’s so rich. It’s perfect for the song."

"That was a new one," Karl observes, stepping forward to join them. "What was it called? Catch something?"

Zoe, of course, can’t help but give Karl a momentary dirty look. Then she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tone switching over from shy to challenging. "It’s called ‘Catch Fire.’ It’s pretty good, I think. Don’t you think, Karl?"

"Pretty good?" Karl repeats, his eyes wide. "It was fucking magical. Pine, get your arse in the studio and make me a demo. Yesterday. You got that? And in the future, please tell me when you’re keeping genius material under wraps, okay?"

Chris looks over at Zoe, who’s got that blush going all over again, as much as she’s trying to look annoyed. "Yeah, yeah, sure," he says. "No problem." He makes a mental note to book some studio time with Clifton as soon as possible. It’s not as though he hasn’t made Karl tons of demos before, none of which have gone anywhere at all. But he’s not sure he can remember Karl ever being so excited about one of his songs. It’s nice, actually—seeing Karl excited about his work and not just his dick.

"Good man. Look, I’ve got to make a quick phone call and then we can head back to mine, all right? Just give me a few minutes."

Karl walks off before Chris can even reply, leaving him alone with Zoe and her disapproving looks.

"I guess that means you won’t be sticking around for a drink," she says.

"Well, I can always catch up with him later."

"It’s fine, really. I just thought it’d be fun to celebrate the song’s big debut and all." Zoe sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear. "You really think he’ll come through if you make him a demo?"

"First time for everything," Chris says, smirking. "To be fair, this song is better than anything I’ve ever written, so…"

"Stop," Zoe chides, nudging his side. "Like I always say, just don’t forget me when you’re famous, okay?"

" _You_ don’t forget me when _you’re_ famous. Which you could have been ages ago if you just sang Groff one of your—"

"Shhh. This is your career we’re talking about, not mine." Zoe reaches up and envelops him in a warm, tight hug, the kind only she knows how to give. Chris hugs back, a little thrill going through him when she whispers in his ear, "I don’t wanna jinx it, but I’ve got a good feeling about this one, baby."

Chris closes his eyes and inhales. "I don’t want to jinx it either," he whispers back.

A few weeks later, Chris wakes up starving—nothing new there—and to music playing in the background. He snuffles into his pillow, half-conscious, wondering if his alarm is going off. Then he sleepily realizes that he’s at Karl’s place. Karl's alarm doesn’t have a music function, and makes a horrendous beeping noise instead.

"Turn this shit off," he mumbles, swatting his hand in Karl’s direction. "Don’t have anywhere to be. Fuck off."

"I will not fuck off," Karl states. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand down Chris’ bare side, making him shiver. "Nor will I have you insulting such a fine musician. I hear he’s the next John Mayer, you know."

"Wha?" Chris opens his eyes at that and listens closely. That’s him singing—that’s his song playing, the new demo. "Why are you…? Where’s that coming from?"

Karl grins and points to the radio on the table across the room. "There."

Chris blinks and sits up, eyeballing the device and then going across the room to look at it close up. It certainly _looks_ like a functioning radio, and it does seem to be on and tuned to a specific station. And that is his voice, singing his song, the one he wrote with Zoe and recorded a little while ago.

 _One look at you and I catch fire  
Walk through the door and I catch fire  
I called it love, I called it desire  
But all I do is burn, burn, burn…_

"This is a radio," Chris says in wonderment. He crouches down, examining the radio as if it’s an alien specimen. "My voice is coming out of its speakers."

Karl comes over and kneels beside him, touching his back. "If I had known this would break your brain, I might have thought twice about sending your demo to the station."

"I, like…kind of want to hug this radio right now. Like, I want to cradle it in my arms and cuddle it close to my bosom and shit. Is that weird?"

"A bit, yes. But I promise I won’t tell anyone, as long as I get to cuddle with your bosom directly after."

As soon as the song ends, Chris wastes no time in pouncing on Karl, knocking him to the floor and wrapping around him like a barnacle. Karl laughs and rubs Chris’ back, tousles his hair affectionately.

"It’s fantastic, isn’t it? I sent it to the station and they called me the very next day, fucking _begging_ me to play it. I mean, it’s _that_ good, Chris. It’s that fucking good. And in no time at all, a label will hear it and pick it up, and…shit. Chris, are you crying?"

"No," Chris mutters tearfully into Karl’s shoulder. "I’m just…a little overwhelmed, I guess. With everything. I just—that’s been my _dream_ , you know? To hear my music on the radio. For I don’t even know how long. Shit."

"For a long time, that’s how long." Karl starts threading his fingers through Chris’ hair, almost tenderly. "And I’m the lucky bastard who got to be in the room with you when it happened. If that isn’t a story for the grandkids, I don’t know what is."

"I hate you," Chris mutters. "So much. Shut your sexy face."

He kisses Karl’s neck, then his mouth, muffling Karl’s cheerful laughter, and then they keep kissing until Chris is dizzy with it. They hold onto each other tightly and wind their legs together and it’s so fucking nice and good that Chris can hardly stand it. It’s always been just sex between them, something to keep the mood light between failed ventures, and it’s never really meant anything. Right now, though, Chris is filled with a fuzzy, sparkly feeling that makes his heart pound and his stomach ache, and he’s pretty sure it’s love—it couldn’t possibly be anything else. But what he doesn’t know is whether he’s in love with Karl or in love with this moment; in love with the whole goddamn world.

Either way, it’s pure and it’s golden and this is officially the best day of his life. And right now, he’s really glad he never listened to Zoe about breaking up with Karl.

*

It’s a Wednesday when Karl breaks up with him. Yes, _Karl_ breaks up with _him_.

"It’s just…" Karl trails off, looking down into the forest green mug in his hands, sitting on his yellow, round coffee table. They’re both wearing T-shirts and boxer shorts and still look rumpled from the night of sleep and incredible sex that preceded this horrific morning. "Offers are starting to come in, Chris. _Good_ offers. And we’re going to have to start taking some of them if we ever want to jump start your career, and…well, we always knew this would happen someday, didn’t we?"

"Yeah, no. Right." Chris nods, his throat thick. "I mean, I guess I knew you were just wasting time before things started to heat up."

"I never said I was _wasting time_ —"

"No, I mean, _we_ were wasting time. Or, well, not wasting time, but just…messing around. Whiling time away. In each other’s company. Or something."

Karl squints across the table at him. "It’s not as though this is easy for me, you know."

"Oh, well," Chris scoffs, pushing his own mug away. "Lemme just get you a box of tissues."

"Chris, you’re not— _listen_ , all right?" Karl looks at him imploringly and it seems as though there’s a genuine flicker of something in his eyes, so Chris nods, willing to listen. For now, anyway. "I reckon I’ve got two ways of looking at this. I can either stop being your manager and be _with_ you, or we can make a clean break, the way we said we would in the beginning, and focus on your work. Which I absolutely love and believe in, by the way."

Chris isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be honored that Karl loves his work, or upset because he _only_ loves his work. Right now, he feels a bit of both, and it’s only adding to the confusion.

"And I guess it never occurred to you to ask what I wanted, huh?"

"Well," Karl sighs, looking at him sadly. "I thought I knew."

Chris licks his lips and pushes away from the table, getting to his feet. He can get a new manager somewhere else, he knows as much. But he feels raw, placed firmly on the spot, and something angry and prideful inside him won't let him cave. They said they'd make a clean break, so that's what he's going to do. "No, yeah. I mean, you were right. I don’t want anything getting in the way of what I’ve been working toward. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?"

Karl moves to stand as well. "Chris," he says, quietly. Chris just shakes his head and smiles his big, fake smile—the one he’ll get a lot of mileage out of, in due time.

"What? I’m agreeing with you." He shrugs and moves to the kitchen door. "I’m just gonna get dressed and head out. Call me when you want to chat about any of those awesome offers we’re getting. I’m getting. Just let me know."

"Yeah, all right," Karl says. He sits back down and doesn’t quite make eye contact. "I’ll be in touch."

It’s sterile and it’s blank and it’s cold. It’s business, Chris supposes.

He ends up sitting on Zoe’s front stoop, waiting for her to get home from work. By the time she arrives, it’s already rained twice and Chris is shivering in his wet clothes. Zoe takes one look at him, piteous and damp on the granite steps leading up to her building, and gets to snarking.

"This had better be good, to justify the insanity of sitting out all day in the rain."

"I’m going to be famous, maybe," Chris says, rubbing his biceps. "So Karl broke up with me. Y’know, like he always said he would?"

"Oh, baby boy," Zoe whispers, all the scorn dissipating from her voice. She reaches down and helps him to his feet. "I hope you’re not too famous for SpaghettiOs."

"I love SpaghettiOs."

"Good, ’cause payday’s not ’til Friday and that’s all I’ve got."

Once inside Zoe’s apartment, she gives him blankets and some of Groff's freshly laundered clothes to wear, as well as a piping hot bowl of limp, circular pasta floating in watery tomato sauce. Chris eats it all quickly, chases it with a second bowl, then curls up with Zoe in her bed and falls to pieces over Karl. To her credit, Zoe doesn’t dispense with _I told you so_ s or any tired monologues about how he’s better off; she just listens and strokes his hair and offers him Kleenex when he gets overly snotty. And she doesn’t have to tell him it’ll be fine, because he _knows_ it will be—Karl was never his boyfriend, not really, and all things considered, things are looking up. But, sweet woman that she is, she says it anyway.

"Baby," she murmurs. "You're gonna be just fine. There are bigger and better things in store for you. You’ll see."

And yeah, he believes her. Even though he doesn’t want to.

*

Zoe assures him that he’s allowed a few days of moping time, so Chris takes full advantage of the situation and spends the next few days in bed. He only gets up to consume food when the "EAT SOMETHING, BOY" reminder that Zoe put on his phone buzzes angrily at him, which happens twice a day. On the fourth day, he wakes up from a doze when his phone buzzes again. But instead of the meal reminder, it’s a phone call from his mother.

"I just wanted to tell you that I heard your song on the radio this morning," she says. Chris can hear her beaming on the other end of the line. He can’t help but smile a little as well; it’s kind of infectious.

"Yeah? Did you like it?"

"I _loved_ it! You know, I was upset at first because we tuned in halfway through, so I missed the first part. But they’ve been playing it once every hour, ever since."

Chris blinks, floored by that. "Once every hour? Are you serious?"

"Yes! The DJ said that people keep calling and requesting it! Isn’t that fabulous? Oh, my goodness, we’re so proud of you. You’ll have to send me a copy so I can play it for everyone. Aunt Marie wants one, too. Oh, and your cousin Kyle. And also—"

Chris turns his cheek against his pillow, now smiling for real, smiling crazy big. "As soon as I actually get some copies, I’ll send you a whole box of ’em, okay? Enough for the whole family."

"Okay, good," she says. "Actually, make it two."

And that’s just the beginning. The calls keep coming throughout the day, from what seems like Chris’ entire family to all of his friends—even people he never sees, people whose names he barely remembers. By the time Zoe calls after work, he feels both totally lightheaded and overwhelmed by it all.

"Well, you definitely _sound_ better," she says. "I guess time heals all wounds?"

"Not exactly. More like overnight fame heals all wounds. Time can suck it."

Zoe laughs. "Well, I’m glad you had a good day. You deserve it." She pauses for a moment. "I have to say, I heard it on the radio at Jon’s place today, and…it was pretty incredible. Hearing it, you know? I mean, I’ve sold songs before but this one is _ours_."

"I know, I still can’t get over it," Chris says. He hears his call-waiting beep and frowns. "Hold on, it’s probably my great aunt Hazel, calling from the nursing home to ask for copies for her bridge club." He smiles at Zoe’s answering laugh and switches over quickly. "Hello?"

"Chris, it’s me." Karl. The good mood suddenly deflates. Not that Chris isn’t happy to hear from him—he is still Chris’ manager, after all. It’s just…strange. Different.

"Oh, hey. Hi. What’s up?"

"Well, listen, I’ve got this great thing to tell you about. Something I think you should do. Would it be all right if we got together tomorrow to discuss it? Not at my place or yours or anything, just…out somewhere."

"Yeah, okay," Chris says, chewing on his lip. It’s going to hurt like hell to see Karl and not be able to touch him, but he needs to be a grown-up about this. He _has_ to, for the sake of, well, everything. He gave up a potential boyfriend and he's not going to lose his manager on top of it. Not now, when things are going so well. "Can’t you just tell me what it is now?"

"It’s more meant for an in-person discussion, I think."

"Can I at least get a hint?"

Karl hesitates and Chris can tell that he’s smiling. He misses that smile.

"Sugar," Karl says.

"Sugar? That’s a terrible hint. You want me to be the spokesperson for Splenda or something?"

"Christ, I miss you," Karl says, laughing. The words make Chris fall silent and then it’s a few awkward moments before Karl speaks up again. "Tomorrow, okay? Bana’s at 11? I’ll tell you all about it."

"Eleven, got it."

"Great. Oh, and Pine? Congrats on taking over the airwaves."

"Well. It’s all thanks to you, really."

"No way. The music is what counts. All I am is the messenger."

Chris bites his lip and looks around his sunlit bedroom. He can almost picture Karl standing there in his boxers, pausing in his phone conversation with one hand pressed over the receiver and smiling slyly, as if he knows all of Chris’ secrets. He rubs at his eyes and pushes the mental image away.

"Yeah, sure," he says. "I’ll try to remember that."

 

   
II.

Chris blinks once, then again, harder and more deliberate the second time. He tries to adjust his vision to the neon, sparkly mess dancing on the television screen in front of him; attempts to recognize some artistic merit in the bubbly pop disaster that’s currently blaring from the set’s speakers.

"Okay, I’m lost," he announces, slouching back on his sofa. He looks up at Karl, who’s currently standing next to the television as the plastic, pink extravaganza carries on. "I had it on good authority that you were a sane and rational individual, and that you would know better than to present me with totally bizarre, incomprehensible shit like this. But, on the other hand, I would really love to know what you’re smoking and get your dealer’s number, while I’m at it. So, like, text me that shit."

"Christopher," Karl says sternly. He pauses the musical massacre and sits down next to Chris on the sofa. "I know it seems outlandish. But this is an offer that could fucking _catapult_ your career. We have to at least consider it."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Rewind. Let me get this shit straight." Chris grabs the remote and unpauses the DVD, then points it at the gentleman prancing around onscreen. "You want me to go on tour with _this_ guy?"

This guy, as Karl explained it at Bana’s the other day, is none other than Johnny Sugar, one of South Korea’s biggest pop stars and a musical force to be reckoned with, albeit one who performs and makes music in a completely different hemisphere. And that’s if you can even call it "music." The shit is offensive to Chris’ ears, what with all the beeps and boops and superfluous rapping and straight-up yelling. And if this music video is any indication, Johnny Sugar is all spectacle and no substance, powering through slick choreography with a cadre of backup dancers on a set that’s painted every color of the rainbow, replete with lasers, stars, and more lasers.

"I mean, look at this crazy shit," Chris says. "It’s like one of my sister’s old Lisa Frank binders. If it exploded."

"This is what pop music is like in Asia, Chris. It’s all very extravagant. And this Sugar bloke stands to be one of their biggest exports. His last record sold six million copies alone."

Chris’ eyes boggle at that. "Six _million_? Does anyone even sell that many albums anymore, ever? Are there even that many people on the planet?"

Karl smirks. "Give or take, yes. And, believe it or not, his people would love nothing more than to have a clean-cut, blue-eyed stud like you open for him on his first U.S. tour. They reckon it’ll ease people into the whole thing. Plus, they liked your song."

"Oh, well, nice of them to listen to it as an afterthought," Chris retorts, rolling his eyes. "It just doesn’t seem kosher, Karl. I don’t even have an album out yet. And what if going on tour with Willy Wonka here gives everyone the wrong impression of me? My music is fucking important to me. I don’t want people to think I’m some slick, brainless pop star with absolutely nothing of interest to say."

"For god’s sake, Pine, it’s pop music, not philosophy." Karl turns off the video and looks at Chris plainly. "It would get your name out there and make people _notice_ you. All eyes are going to be on this guy when he heads over here. And it wouldn’t hurt to get you in that shared spotlight—when all’s said and done, you might end up with a record deal. In the meantime, we’ll produce a single and some merch, get your song up on iTunes, produce a video…"

Chris tucks his chin in his palm and sighs. All of that stuff Karl just listed is all he’s ever wanted—isn’t it? "I want to say something but you’re going to laugh at me," he says. Karl looks at him, bemused.

"Go ahead," he says. "I would never laugh at you." Liar.

"I just… I’m worried about preserving my artistic integrity here. This guy—I’m nothing like this guy. And I don’t want people to think I’m a sellout."

Karl reaches out, as if he’s going to rub Chris’ back or smooth back his hair, but then he thinks better of it. His hand hangs awkwardly in midair for a few seconds before he grabs the remote and presses play again. He mutes the volume so he can talk while Johnny Sugar thrusts his pelvis and zaps rays of glitter from his fingertips.

"There’s no such thing as a sellout anymore, Chris. We’re all sellouts from the day we’re born. I’m not saying you’re not the real deal, because you are. But these days, people respond to ambition most of all. Anyone who pretends they’re not in it to win it is a fucking liar and probably a tool." He motions to the television. "This is me talking as your friend here, by the way, not just your manager. You could do worse than to hitch your wagon to this sparkly, sparkly horse."

Chris sighs under the weight of his encroaching acquiescence. "It’s so sparkly, it’s burning my retinas."

"The future is bright," Karl says, patting his shoulder. "We’ll get you some shades."

*

The evening air is brisk as Chris and Zoe walk down the street, each eating their ice cream—Chris’ treat, for once, which he was more pleased to offer than he let on. The conversation has been quiet for a while, an easy silence that they’re good at and which Chris finds comforting, even if he knows what’s eventually coming. Zoe sucks a bit of mint chocolate chip from the tip of her plastic spoon and shrugs, looking down at the sidewalk pavement.

"I watched some of his videos on YouTube," she says. "He’s very, um…exuberant."

"Tell me about it," Chris says, laughing. He considers his cup of rocky road. "Karl says his last album sold six million copies."

"That doesn’t even seem possible nowadays." Zoe lifts her hands, one clutching her spoon and the other holding the half-empty cup of ice cream. "Listen, I don’t want to sound like the biggest jerk on Earth."

Chris smiles fondly at Zoe, his best friend who’s always in his corner, no matter what. "You could never."

"Oh, I could. I guess I need some reassurance that you’re not doing this just because Karl wants you to."

"Zoe, I’m not—"

"Just because he’s your manager doesn’t mean he’s the boss of you," she says, wagging a finger for emphasis. "And I know you know better than to be like this, but I would have to hit you upside your head if this was some misguided attempt to…I don’t know, get him to be with you again."

"No." Chris shakes his head and watches his feet as they move. "The whole Karl thing still hurts, but I wouldn’t go back. I can’t do that to myself."

"Good." Zoe nods firmly and eats another spoonful of ice cream. "So you really want to do this?"

He shrugs. "I mean, it’s only for a few months? And I’d get to perform for big crowds and sell my stuff. And it’s money. I need money so I can stop mooching from my songwriting partner and buy her ice cream instead."

"Seriously. I’m getting accustomed to this lifestyle. I can’t go back."

Chris laughs and takes in the sight of Zoe’s disarming smile. Sometimes he wishes they weren’t such good friends—she’s a perfect creature and she deserves a lot better than random sex with the ass who runs the local coffee shop and a dead-end job that holds her back from her dreams. He finishes his ice cream and tosses the garbage in a nearby trashcan. Then, an amazing idea strikes him.

"Come with me," he says. Zoe looks up abruptly, her eyes comically wide. Chris laughs again. "I mean it. Come with me on tour and write songs with me and let me show you off and…just come."

"Chris, I can’t just blow off my job. Jon would never let me go on vacation for that long, and—"

"So quit! If he had any idea how fucking talented you are, he probably would have fired you himself a long time ago."

Zoe looks away, her cheeks getting flushed. Chris can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment, anger, or both. "Jonathan isn’t just my boss; he’s my friend. I can’t just pack up and leave him because Karl dreamt up some ludicrous adventure for you." She throws the remainder of her ice cream into the nearest trashcan and Chris frowns. He totally would have finished that off for her.

"What’s your problem? It’s a good opportunity! I thought you _wanted_ Karl to find something like this for me!"

"That’s just it!" Zoe yells, spinning to face him. "It’s for _you_! Everything we ever do together is for you! It’s bad enough that you’re going to go off and become über-famous and leave me here, but now you want me to tag along and be your entourage?"

Chris blinks in surprise, stepping back. "Zoe, that’s the last thing I want. I want this for you, sometimes even more badly than I want it for me. Why do you think I’m always telling you to sing for Jonathan? The only one who ever holds you back is _you_."

Zoe exhales and steps back, her eyes filling with tears. Chris blanches, wishing he had any idea what was going on in her head. Luckily, when he reaches out for her, she goes willingly into his arms, sniffling against his chest. He holds her as snugly as he can and doesn’t say a word, just waits for her to calm down and gather her thoughts. When she pulls away, she doesn’t look any closer to being happy and excited to go with him, just…sad.

"You’re right. Okay? You’re right. I know. But I’m not a natural like you. And I just… I’m not ready. I’m not ready to sing my own stuff or quit my job. And I know it sounds stupid and that you don’t understand."

"It doesn’t sound stupid," Chris says quietly. "I just wish you had more confidence in yourself. Or, failing that, wanted to come along with me and hold my hand, ’cause I kinda don’t know what I’m doing and I’m sorta scared shitless." He laughs awkwardly and finally gets a half-smile out of Zoe. He takes a deep breath and smiles back. "Look. Do you want the song back? I don’t want—I mean, if it’s going to cause any resentment between us…"

Zoe shakes her head firmly and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "That song is for you. I meant that. And don’t be scared, baby boy. Good things are going to happen. I can feel it. Just don’t forget me when you’re—"

"Oh, my god, I’m going to call you _every day_ , okay? You’ll be totally fucking sick of me."

"Never ever ever, baby." She kisses him one more time. "Thanks for the ice cream," she says, as she walks away and leaves Chris behind on an otherwise lonely street.

Later that night, he texts Karl to tell him he’s in and gets a reply laden with exclamation points. He falls asleep and dreams of crowds that don’t cheer, a best friend that stops taking his calls, and a stranger’s roguish smile, bright and noticeable even in a sea of harsh lights and glitter.

*

"Pine, seriously, what is _wrong_ with you?"

It’s not the best way to start the day, if your manager says that to you the minute you get into his car for a lift to a big, huge, massively important meeting with people who can make or break your career. But it’s the hand that Chris has been dealt.

"What? What is it?"

"This outfit," Karl says, motioning to Chris’ suit jacket, tie, and his carefully parted, slicked hair. "We’re not taking you to your first communion. You have to look hip. C’mere and take that jacket off."

Chris does as he’s told, then sits there and protests with a few squeaks as his former lover manhandles him, and not in the way he prefers. When Karl is through with him, his hair is mussed, spiky in places due to all the gel, and his tie is artfully undone, the knot hanging somewhere halfway down his chest.

"Fuck. I worked really hard on that knot."

"You’re trying to get your name on a concert bill, here, not joining your local chapter of the Young Republicans."

"Boy, you’re on fire today, aren’t you? I hope this means you’ll be doing all the talking."

Karl nods and shifts the car into gear, pulling out onto the road. "For the most part. But it won’t make a difference if they take one look at you and decide you’re too wholesome, or worse, overly groomed and creepy."

Chris pulls down the passenger side mirror and takes a look at himself. "And you think this is more hip than I was before?"

"Well, slightly. Now it looks like you tried really hard to look like you don’t care. Just trust me on this one." Karl makes a quick turn and then motions to the two coffees in the cup holders, going into full-fledged manager mode. "The one on the right is yours. I got the lowdown on who’ll be attending today. It’s Sugar and his American rep, Rachel Nichols. Sugar’s PA will be there, too, for translation purposes."

Chris gives him a confused look. "Translation of what?"

"English," Karl says quickly, his eyes darting to the rear-view mirror.

"Wait, hold the phone. You mean to tell me that this Johnny Sugar guy doesn’t speak any English? How am I supposed to go on a tour with someone who doesn’t speak English? We’re going to have to talk to each other at some point, aren’t we?"

"Well, that’s why the PA is there. He’s fluent in English and Korean and some other language. Russian, I think."

"Oh, great," Chris mutters. "That’ll be useful. For when we take a side trip to Saint Petersburg."

Karl smiles smugly. "Yes, please, do me a favor and unload all of your delightful bitching on me now, because I’ll be forced to smack you in the head if you say anything like that during the meeting."

"Who cares? It’s not like the guy will understand what I’m saying."

"Translator," Karl reminds him. "And, from what I hear, close confidant. The guy doesn’t make a single move without consulting this kid first."

"Kid? How old is he, anyway?"

Turns out that the PA, Anton, _is_ a kid. Karl assured Chris that he’s no less than 22 years old but it looks like he practically cut his first tooth last week. He sits on the other side of the conference table with his arms folded across his chest, chewing on gum in an exaggerated way that makes his cheekbones stand out. Seated two seats away from him is Rachel Nichols, a charming and utterly stunning woman who talks animatedly with Karl about the specifics.

Notably absent is the man himself, Johnny Sugar.

"Is this guy actually going to show his face at this thing, or is he too cool for that?" Chris whispers to Karl.

"He’s meant to," Karl whispers back. "Probably running late. You know how celebrities are."

"Should we have shown up late?"

Karl smirks. "You’re not a celebrity. Yet."

After fifteen minutes or so, there’s a clanking noise in the hallway, like someone’s carrying a bike into the room. Instead, it’s Johnny Sugar, wearing an outfit with enough chains and similar accoutrements to kidnap a man and hold him for hostage. He’s also wearing a bright yellow pair of over-sized goggles, which are perched on his spiky head. Also, black and white checked suspenders on top of a bright red T-shirt. And two watches.

Chris exchanges a look with Karl, one that reads of deep, massive confusion. He’s so glad Karl made him take off that stupid jacket.

"Johnny!" Anton says, and it’s the first word he’s uttered so far. Johnny nods to him and to Rachel as well, then takes a seat in the chair between them, sprawling out as if he owns the room and the entire building. Chris can’t help but stare, wondering just who the hell this guy thinks he is, when he hears Rachel say his name.

"Johnny, this is Karl Urban and his client, singer-songwriter Chris Pine."

Anton says something in Korean, presumably translating, and Johnny lifts his gaze to meet Chris’. To say he looks unimpressed is an understatement. He murmurs something to Anton, who smirks in return and Chris just _knows_ they’re talking shit about him.

"Hey, what’d he say?" Chris asks, interrupting Rachel. Everyone stops and looks at him. He turns his attention to Anton. "Hey, man, what did you guys just say to each other?"

Anton blows a stray curl out of his eyes and arches a brow. "He says he’s never heard of you. And I told him, no one has. Happy?"

The flare of anger in Chris’ gut tells him that no, he’s certainly not happy. "Karl, can I talk to you in private?" he says, grabbing Karl by the elbow, already hauling him out of the chair. He can feel Johnny Sugar’s gaze trailing after him as he leaves the room.

"Chris, what the _fuck_ —" Karl immediately says. Chris cuts him off.

"I can’t do this, Karl. You seriously want me to spend six to eight weeks with this guy, who doesn’t even speak the same language as me, and just met me a minute ago, but won’t stop judging me with his eyes?"

Karl rubs his forehead. "Chris, no one is judging you with their eyes. At least, not now that you took off that ridiculous sports coat."

"He _is_. And what the fuck is he wearing? He looks like some reject from a Saturday morning kids’ show."

"Well, then," Karl says, clasping his shoulder. "Sounds like you’ll have a very fruitful few weeks of judging each other. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to quit fucking around out here with you and actually negotiate your contract."

"I don’t want to go," Chris blurts out. Karl turns slowly, taking a breath, and pulls him aside, lowering his voice.

"Chris, are you sure? I know I’ve told you this already, but this is an _excellent_ opportunity. You need the exposure and he needs someone like you to help him make waves in the States. It’s fairly win-win."

He feels like a little kid, making a big deal over nothing, but Chris can’t help but second-guess Karl. This Johnny Sugar guy is obviously a douche on wheels and Chris couldn’t even stand being in the same room with him for five minutes before freaking out. "You’re gonna come along, right? On the tour?" Chris asks. He doesn’t like the hesitant look that passes over Karl’s face. "Oh, Karl, come _on_."

"Chris, I have other clients, too, you know. I almost always put you first but I can’t this time. I’m happy to come and see some of the shows, check in on you to make sure things are going well and no one’s in breach of contract, but I can’t be on the road with you for six weeks. Why didn’t you ask Zoe?"

"I did," he mutters. "She didn’t want to."

"She'd rather sit around back home and change Groff's diapers? I don't understand that woman." He shakes his head and nudges Chris to head back into the room. "Come on. We stay out here any longer and they'll die of boredom."

"For fuck's sake," Chris mutters.

In the end, the deal is made, the contracts are signed, and Chris is all set to see the country with some random dude who looks like he couldn't give a shit if his life depended on it. Johnny and Anton keep murmuring to each other in Korean throughout the process, completely ignoring everyone else in the room, so it comes as a surprise when Anton actually addresses Chris directly.

"Will you have an assistant?" he asks. "Because I won't be able to help you with anything. Johnny requires my full attention on a constant basis."

Chris scratches his jaw and mentally bets that these two are touching dicks at least twice a day. "I don't really—" His phone buzzes in his pocket suddenly and he squints as he digs it out. He wonders who would be texting him now. "I don't have one, no, but I don't think I'll need one." He glances at his phone, then, which has a new text from Zoe.

 _Changed my mind. J is cool w/it so I'm coming with you, baby. xxoo_

"Ahh, actually!" Chris blurts, a huge grin spreading across his face. "I will have someone with me. She'll probably cut my balls off if I actually ask her for anything, but yeah, I'll have some support."

Johnny lifts one eyebrow in an exaggerated way that tells Chris he understands more English that he lets on. Beside him, Anton nods.

"Well, good. That's settled."

After it's all said and done and handshakes have been exchanged—aside from Rainbow Brite, who forgoes handshakes in favor of taking a phone call and walking out of the room—Chris makes time to text Zoe back.

 _Omg omg THANK GOD_ , he writes. _This is going to be a freakshow of epic proportions, wouldn't want you to miss it._

 _It's just never as good secondhand._

*

"You weren't kidding," Zoe says to Chris, the first time she lays eyes on Johnny Sugar. He's dressed in an acid wash denim vest with matching jeans, with some kind of neon pink and yellow monstrosity that passes as an excuse for a shirt. Oh, and a lime green bowtie. Zoe lifts her hand, as if to protect her gaze from the harsh UV rays emanating from the outfit, even though she's also wearing sunglasses. "You think it's some kind of misguided attempt at the avant-garde? Lady Gaga-lite?"

Chris scratches the back of his neck idly. "Maybe his lifelong dream is to quit music and go to clown college."

"Maybe he had some sort of traumatic childhood incident involving Peewee Herman."

"Fuck. I'm so glad you're here."

They have separate tour buses, which makes Chris infinitely glad. This way, he and Zoe will have lots of time to talk and work on new music, while Johnny and Anton can be alone and do whatever it is they do on their bus, which Chris assumes includes dancing around in their underwear and drinking gallons of Kool-Aid. Johnny's camp actually gets _two_ buses: one for him and Anton, and one for his many backup dancers, all of whom look effortlessly pretty, with anime-inspired haircuts and thin, wispy bodies. Chris spots Johnny walking over to his bus and decides to make an effort when their eyes meet. He tilts his chin up in a small nod that's meant to say something like, 'Hey buddy,' or 'We're in this together.' Johnny looks at Chris blankly, as if he's never seen him before in his life, and then disappears onto the bus.

"Friendly guy," Zoe comments.

"He's a real charmer."

"You know, I can understand dressing up for stage shows, if it's some kind of persona. But all he's doing right now is getting onto a bus."

Chris considers this, staring after the other bus, which has "Johnny Sugar" emblazoned along the sides in day-glo, neon colors. When he turns his head, Anton is suddenly standing right in front of him. He nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Jesus fuck! Anton. Hi."

"Hi. Who is this?" He motions to Zoe, who smiles and shakes his hand.

"I'm Zoe. I'm Chris' best friend and songwriting partner."

"Not his personal assistant?"

"No. I mean..." She gestures with one hand, the other propped on her hip. "I actually _am_ a personal assistant, but not his. I'm mainly here for moral support."

Anton nods slowly, taking in the information, and then reaches for Zoe's slender hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. "Anton," he says while fervently looking into her eyes. "Pleasure. I'll see you in San Diego."

"Uh, sure." Zoe looks after Anton warily as he walks away and heads to the bus. "Is it me, or did I just get macked on by a fetus?"

Chris scrunches his nose. "Huh. I thought for sure that he was butt buddies with Sugar. All they ever do is sit and whisper to each other in Korean."

"Maybe he is. Come on, let's check out the bus."

Just as they're about to go over, they're interrupted by some shouting. Chris turns and spots a dark-haired, slender man in a ridiculously tight tank top and painted-on jeans running toward the buses, carrying two large, designer-brand suitcases at his sides.

"Don't leave! Don't leave!" he yells. Chris holds up a hand to stop him.

"Hey, man, no worries. We've still got fifteen minutes before we head out."

"Oh, thank god," the man says, pausing to catch his breath. He throws his luggage down on the ground, letting the suitcases fall to their sides. Then he pulls an honest to god handkerchief out of his back pocket and starts dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead and cheeks. "I hate L.A. sometimes, you know? The traffic is such a bitch."

Chris peers over at Zoe, who has a wary look on her face. He's not sure he can tolerate yet another weirdo in this seemingly never-ending queue of cartoon characters. What exactly did Karl sign him up for, anyway?

"I'm Chris," he says, holding out a hand. "And this is my friend Zoe. You are...?"

"Oh, my god! You're the opening act! Hi!" He takes Chris' hand in a strong, sweaty, and overly enthusiastic shake. "Zach Quinto. I'm the choreographer of Johnny's U.S. stage show."

"Of course you are," Zoe says. She smiles at Zach while shielding her eyes from the sun, or maybe from the gay. It's pretty powerful stuff.

"Well, great," Chris says. He takes a closer look at Zach's outfit. The tank top scoops low across Zach's chest, putting an admirable amount of chest hair on display, and also manages to ride up his belly, exposing even more skin and more hair. The jeans also leave nothing to the imagination. He's not really Chris' type at all but it's been a while since he last had sex, so the sight of all that bare flesh sends a horny little tingle through him. He tries to ignore it. "I guess you'll be in the bus with the dancers, then?"

"Oh, no. Dancers are only good for two things: dancing and fucking. Other than that, it's best to keep one's distance."

Chris furrows his brow and tries to keep a straight face while Zoe snorts into her palm. "Noted," he says. Zach smirks at him.

"You two are going to be trouble. You're just as cute as they told me, though, Chris. You too," he adds, looking at Zoe. "The 2011 Hot Asses Tour."

With that, Zach picks up his suitcases and sashays his way to Johnny and Anton's bus, the door swishing shut behind his ass, decorated with that red handkerchief in the left-hand pocket. Chris exhales and wraps his arm around Zoe, leading her to their bus.

"Did that just happen?" she asks. "God, I am _so_ glad I'm here. Also, what does the red hanky mean again?"

"You don't want to know."

*

Chris finds that he likes the bus, possibly more than he even likes his apartment. It has a lot more food stocked in its kitchen area, for one thing. Plus, Zoe makes a great bus mate, as he expected she would. Their driver is an affable guy named Simon, with a charming British accent and a dirty sense of humor. So far, he's the first normal guy that Chris has met on this particular adventure. Zoe has already taken to calling their little collective the "Not Crazy Bus."

He spends a good part of the evening in the front of the bus with Simon, chatting amiably and getting to know each other. Johnny's bus drives ahead of them, with the dancers taking up the rear, no pun intended. Chris recalls Zach's assessment of the dancers' worth and finds himself amused at how their procession is going in the supposed order of importance. He wonders what they're all up to on the main bus. Maybe Johnny and Anton are cuddling up for a shag while Zach works on making himself more flexible. Maybe it's an all-out orgy with pillow fights and giggling. Despite his garish wardrobe, though, Johnny doesn't seem like the fun-loving type, let alone someone who would ever dare to giggle during sex. Chris imagines the guy sitting in his bunk, tinkering with his phone, not speaking to anyone, and decides that it's the most likely scenario for such an unfriendly guy.

Chris nods off after a while and Simon wakes him when they get to a rest stop.

"Going to fetch some caffeine," he says. "Why don't you call it a night? You look like you could use some sleep."

"Yeah, suppose I need it. Thanks, man. See you in the morning."

Chris makes his way toward the back of the bus and finds Zoe curled up in her bunk, already asleep. She looks oddly angelic, now that all of the day's sarcasm has melted from her expression. Chris pulls off his T-shirt and gets into his own bunk, moving to plug his phone into its charger when it suddenly buzzes. It's Karl. He rubs at his eyes and picks up, concerned.

"Hey, something wrong?" Chris whispers, careful not to wake Zoe. "If the tour's been cancelled, our driver's gonna be pissed."

"No, nothing like that," Karl says. His voice is quiet and sounds almost wistful. "Just wanted to call and see how it's going."

"Well," he says, yawning. "You've stuck me with a traveling carnival show of gay men with questionable fashion and lifestyle choices, I'm still scared shitless of performing in a big venue, and if Zoe weren't here, I'd be ready for the loony bin right now. How's that for an update?"

Karl laughs on the other end and it makes Chris' heart clench. "Christ. It can't be _that_ bad, can it?"

"No," he concedes. "It's not that bad. It's just new. But I'm trying, I really am."

"I know you are. And I'm proud of you." Chris barely has time to process that information before Karl goes onto the next mind-numbing bit. "And I miss you."

Chris laughs awkwardly and turns onto his side, away from Zoe. "You really need to stop saying that. I mean, for starters, I've only been gone for a day."

"Yeah, but that's not what I mean. I... I think I might have made a mistake, Chris. Did I?"

It's hard to suppress his reaction. Chris presses his face into the too-firm pillow on his bed. "You can't do this to me, Karl. We came to a decision."

"I know, but you took it so hard and it made me rethink things that I thought had always been true and now you're off on your tour and I'm—"

"Please don't," Chris implores him. He can't bear to hear Karl talk about how lonely he is. He's lonely, too, and it's bound to weaken his resolve. In the distance, he can hear Simon re-boarding the bus, the engine starting up again. "I mean, I just stopped...ugh. Just don't, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." Karl pauses and takes in a deep breath. "You in the bus? In bed?"

"Yeah. Zoe's asleep."

"What are you wearing?" he asks. Chris can hear the mischief in his voice and he scoffs.

"You've seen me sleep before, you know what I wear."

"Not much, as I recall." He's smiling, Chris can tell. "I never told you how gorgeous you are, did I? Your fucking eyes and your mouth. And your arse, god."

Chris reaches down and rubs his palm over his crotch. His cock has already begun to harden, thanks to the goddamn cozy sound of Karl's voice. They shouldn't do this, especially not when they're both riddled with feelings, but fuck it. He misses Karl, too. He misses having something familiar.

When he doesn't reply, Karl asks, "You touching yourself?"

"Uh huh." Chris moves his hand fully into his boxers and takes himself in hand, hissing out a breath. "You asshole."

"Don't get me started on assholes, Pine." His voice is a little strained and Chris can tell he's jacking himself off, too. "You know how many things I would love to do right now to _your_ asshole?"

"For fuck's sake. Zoe is _right here_."

"So you'll have to be quiet," Karl says. "And we'll have to be fast."

They fall into silence, save for the occasional gasp or grunt as they each continue to work themselves toward completion. Chris shifts onto his stomach and listens to Karl's labored breathing, spreading his legs apart as he pulls on his cock. He imagines that Karl is kneeling behind him, doing fabulous things to his asshole, and he just goes for it, employing all the tricks that usually make him come fast. It's all for naught when Karl suddenly whispers, needy and desperate, " _Chris_ ," and he goes off like a bomb, spurting over the sheets with a muffled gasp. His vision goes fuzzy and when he comes back to himself, his limbs are heavy with exhaustion. He can vaguely hear Karl speaking to him.

"Chris? You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Tired now."

"Glad you're still with me. Listen, um..." He pauses and Chris waits, half-expecting orders to get Simon to turn the bus around and bring Chris back to Karl. Not that Karl would ever say such a thing. But the thought is nice. "Enjoy the tour," he finally says. "Or, at least, try to make the best of it. And remember that I'll be here waiting for you when it's all over. And we can talk things out, see how we feel."

All that Chris feels right now is the urgent need to sleep, so instead of arguing with Karl, he simply yawns and curls up under his sheet, avoiding the wet spot he's made. "Yeah, okay. We'll talk. G'night."

"Night, Chris."

Then he's gone. Chris hangs up the phone and gathers up his remaining strength to find the charger. Across the way, he sees Zoe stir in her bunk, rolling over onto her side. If she saw or heard anything, Chris hopes she'll be kind enough not to mention it.

He falls asleep to the echoing memory of Karl's voice calling out his name and the gentle vibrations of the bus, taking him far away from life as he knows it.

 

III.

"And one, two, three, pivot, kick. Throw your hands up, ladies!"

Chris leans against the side of the doorway and watches as Zach works overtime to whip Johnny Sugar’s backup dancers into shape. Their week of prep is nearly over and soon they’ll be leaving San Diego to bring a tidal wave of sparkles and glitter to the continental United States. Chris has been using the time to work with Zoe on new material, which has been incredibly productive. He’s not sure he can say the same for Johnny Sugar, who’s currently sitting on the floor, leaning against the dance studio’s large mirror, playing a game on his phone. As usual.

Watching the dancers do all that exercise makes Chris thirsty, so he goes over to the craft services table for a soda. He still has a hard time believing that he’s allowed to partake in all of this free food. It was just a few weeks ago that Zoe was spotting him for lattes and feeding him canned pasta and sauce. He opens a Coke and drinks it down, then pauses when he feels eyes on him. It’s Johnny, peering up from his phone, his gaze dark as it pierces through Chris from across the room. Chris looks back at him, puzzled, then nearly jumps when Zach suddenly appears in front of him.

"Chris! Hi."

"Hey, Zach." He tries to look past him, but Zach is all cocked hips and blinding smile and, yeah, very, very sweaty. Chris licks his lips and takes another sip of soda. “What’s up? Looks like rehearsals are going well.”

“Ugh, these bitches have negative talent. Aside from Johnny, that is. But they’ll be all right.” He flicks his bangs back from his face, pulling out the ever-present hanky to wipe away the perspiration along his hairline. Chris gets a clear view of his armpit hair, which is rampant, to say the least, and kind of obscene. “You sure you don’t want any choreography of your own? I know I’m here for Johnny but I’d be willing to help you come up with a number or two.”

Chris shrugs and tries to smile politely. “Thanks, but I’m not much of a dancer. More of a sit on a stool and hope I’m playing the right chords type of guy.”

“Too bad. You could make a lot of money, shaking that ass.”

Zach adds an exaggerated leer for good measure before he winks and walks back to the dancers, leaving Chris bewildered and blushing in his wake. He notices after a moment that Johnny is still staring at him, and he turns away to focus on drinking his Coke, embarrassed for some reason.

He’s considering the little bags of chips when Anton walks over.

“Chris,” he says, jutting his chin out. “Johnny has requested that you refrain from flirting with his employees.”

He nearly spits out his drink. “What?! I wasn’t flirting with anyone!”

“Well, he says you were flirting with Zach. And Zach is here to teach people how to dance, not to mess around with the supporting act, so.”

Chris suppresses the urge to take the little brat’s curly head off his shoulders. “Listen. If either of you had working eyeballs, you’d know that it’s Zach who flirts with everyone and not the other way around. In fact, I’m about ninety-five percent sure that he’s already made his way through half of the waifs pirouetting over there. So why don’t you run along and tell Mr. Sugar that he’s sorely mistaken for starters, and that he should also mind his own business. Got it?”

Anton doesn’t even flinch in the face of Chris’ little tirade. “I’ll let him know,” he says mildly. Then he turns his attention to the craft services table. “There’s never a Diet Coke when I need one. Fucking diet-happy dancers.”

The comment comes out of nowhere and actually makes Chris smile. It’s the first bit of proof he’s had that Anton is a human and not some kind of high-tech android. He looks across the room and sees Johnny working with the group now, following the instructions that Zach barks out amidst hand claps and finger snaps.

“I see he understands enough English for this,” Chris comments. Anton shrugs, examining a blueberry muffin.

“Johnny understands English perfectly well.”

“Obviously not body language, though.” Chris picks a bag of barbecue chips and opens it with a noisy crinkle. “Why was he even looking at me, anyway?”

Anton puts the muffin back. “I’m a PA, not a mind reader. Hey, where’s Zoe, by the way?”

“I’m her friend, not her keeper.”

“Useless.”

Just then, Zach starts collecting all of the dancers in one place, shouting something about a run-through, which Chris and Anton watch together. It’s an elaborate spectacle, complete with twirls and backflips and running cartwheels. Chris isn’t quite sure how they all manage to do it without getting dizzy and collapsing into a heap, or crashing into the walls. He has to admit, though, that Johnny definitely knows what he’s doing here. He’s graceful and lithe in a way that Chris has never noticed before, what with all of those multiple layers of clothes and accessories shrouding everything. And he can fucking _dance_. Chris vaguely remembers as much from the videos that Karl showed him, but those were nothing compared to this real-life performance. Plus, Johnny actually looks happy for once, wrapped up in the moment as he dances to the beat, following Zach’s barked instructions. There’s a passion brewing under the surface that Chris can’t recall ever seeing before.

He claps when it’s over and Johnny looks over at him in surprise. There's something in his eyes that Chris can’t quite decipher. He might be a little embarrassed, actually, possibly flattered. Johnny nods at him and then goes to the other side of the room, where a lackey is standing by with a towel in hand.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Anton says, stirring Chris from his reverie.

“Yeah. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m impressed. He can really move.”

“Oh, it pains you, does it? He’ll be thrilled to know.”

Anton smirks at him and walks away before Chris can get a chance to grab him and shake his little body into silence. All he needs is to give Johnny more ammunition to dislike him. But then, whatever Anton says after he crosses the room must not be that bad, because Johnny turns and actually shoots Chris a small smile. At least, it looks like a smile.

Maybe Anton’s not so bad after all. He smiles back and makes a mental note to save the kid a Diet Coke now and then.

*

Roast beef sandwich wrapper crumpled up beside him, Chris stares at his phone as if he can make it buzz with his mind. No such luck. And not a single call or text from Karl—not since the night they lost their heads while speaking on the phone. Chris frowns and scrolls through his history, packed with calls to his parents and sister, mostly. Snarky texts that Zoe's sent from the other side of a room when she's felt like gossiping. But not a single peep out of Karl, not even a "Hey Pine, how the hell are ya?"

"Boy, stop staring at your phone before it grows arms and hands and slaps you in the face."

Chris peers up at Zoe in the opposite bunk and smirks. "I didn't know that was a possibility but now I'm terrified of my potentially sentient phone, so thanks."

"Well, I mean, anything is possible." Zoe shrugs and rolls onto her side, propping her head up on her palm. "I hope you're not looking on the phone for what I think you might be looking for."

"And pray tell, what do you think I'm looking for?"

She arches her delicate eyebrow. "A tender word from your phone sex buddy?"

"Zoe!" Chris nearly chokes on his own spittle, which would be a really annoying thing to do. "I wasn't—ugh. I thought you were sleeping!"

"Well, I _was_ , until you started gasping over there, as if someone was trying to choke the life out of you." She smirks at Chris, who's going red in the face and all over his neck, likely down to his chest. Damn arctic-white complexion. "It's not like I was offended. I just think you're an idiot for letting him sweet-talk you after he dumped you. Remember that? When he dumped you? You ate pasta out of a can and cried all over my cleavage? Yeah, that happened. I was there."

"I was there, too. Thanks."

Chris pushes the garbage off his bed and rolls over onto his side, away from Zoe. It's bad enough that she heard everything that happened; she doesn't have to rub his face in it. Even if it is for his own good. After a few moments, she takes a seat on the edge of his bed and rubs his shoulder, where the muscles are tense.

"I know you were. And I know you miss him. But he's just jerking you around at this point. You're smart. You must see that."

"I know, and I do. It's just—"

"Helloooo?" someone calls from the front of the bus. It's definitely not Simon. Chris and Zoe turn around and spot Anton, of all people, working his way toward the bunk area. There's a goofy smile plastered onto his face that gives Chris the creeps. He's also wearing the dorkiest vest ever, with his sleeves rolled up past his elbow, and he reeks of cologne.

"You must be here for Zoe," Chris deadpans.

"Well, I was hoping I'd find her here. Not that it's not a pleasure to see you, Chris."

Chris rolls his eyes, about to nudge Zoe's side in a _do you believe this guy?_ gesture when she totally betrays him and giggles. _Giggles_.

"I thought you fancied yourself too good to step foot on our little bus," she says to Anton, smiling as if she actually likes this terrible attempt at flirtation. Anton would definitely be a step up for Zoe, considering what a douche Eric Bana is, but that's not saying much.

Anton leans against the wall and grins. "Well, there's one main thing that your bus has that ours doesn't: you."

"I'm gonna be sick," Chris groans, standing up. "There's got to be something more productive and less nauseating I can do with my night than sit here and listen to you recite a bunch of terrible pick-up lines you wrote in your diary last night."

"I didn't… I don't have a diary," Anton protests, fidgeting. Zoe laughs into her palm and shakes her head.

"Whatever," she says. "I'm fine whether you stay or you don't, so you two work it out, okay? I'm gonna go freshen up in the little girls' room."

As soon as the bathroom door closes, Anton goes from boastful to beseeching.

"Chris, I promise I'll buy you a milkshake tomorrow if you go hang out with Johnny while I spend some time with Zoe. Please?"

"Whoa, you want me to go over _there_? And spend time with _him_? He totally hates me."

"He doesn't _hate_ you. He's just...altogether unimpressed with you."

Chris sits back down on the bed and crosses his arms. "You'd better have a plan B, boy genius."

"Okay, a milkshake and a burger. And fries? Chris, come _on_." Anton drops to his knees and grabs Chris by the shins, which is a little dramatic and defies all carefully laid rules of personal space, but okay. "John's just in there playing Xbox. And he likes playing with someone else. It'll be fun. You'll have fun."

"Right. I'll have a blast playing video games with someone who can't even speak to me in English."

"Xbox is universal?" Anton tries, smiling brightly. Chris looks toward the bathroom and he can just _see_ Zoe in there, her ear pressed to the door in anticipation. He groans and pokes Anton in the shoulder as he gets to his feet again.

"Milkshakes for a _week_ , pipsqueak."

"Ow. Fuck. Fine. Jeez."

And just like that, Chris is standing outside the door to Johnny's tour bus. The driver lets him on with a nod and once inside, he finds Johnny sitting on the floor with his legs folded beneath him, playing Xbox 360, just as Anton described. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt and boxers and Chris almost can't believe his eyes. He looks so _normal_. Almost like a little kid.

"Hey," he says, walking over. Johnny startles a bit and pauses the game, peering up at him. Chris tries to look apologetic. "Sorry. Anton sort of conned me into leaving the other bus so that he can mack on Zoe."

A soft smirk blooms on Johnny's lips and transforms the normally angry line there into an actual smile. Chris grabs onto the shared moment and runs with it.

"Yeah, I know, right? Gross. But anyway, now I'm bored, so." He shrugs, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Mind if I join you? I'm not too bad at _Call of Duty_."

Johnny appraises him and then motions to the empty spot on the floor. Chris sits and has the instantaneous realization that he's never been this close to Johnny before. He smells nice—clean, like he just showered. There's a faint scent of some mildly masculine soap and when Chris looks closer, he also sees that there's no trace of goop in Johnny's hair right now. He looks boyish. It's oddly charming.

"You know, you look good like this," he comments. Johnny gives him the side-eye. "I mean without all the…stuff. The various adornments that make up your stage persona. You wear so many blinding, neon colors; I should make you pay for my next eye exam."

Johnny pushes the second controller at him with a withering look. And Zoe was right—Chris is smart. So he takes the hint and joins the game.

The next time Chris looks up from the television screen, it's over two hours later, and Zach has just stumbled onto the bus with his shirt unbuttoned, looking unbelievably sexed up. Chris and John give him twin stares of judgment and he shrugs exaggeratedly.

"Oh, fuck you, John. Your dancers are hot! If you'd let me fuck Chris, I wouldn't have to resort to diddling the hired help."

Chris blinks and looks between them quickly. Johnny's paused the game and is pointedly not looking back at him. He leans forward to turn off the console, effectively ending the game, with that pissed-off look on his face that Chris knows all too well.

He decides not to ask and takes the exchange as his queue to leave. And despite some mild fear that he'll walk in on Zoe and Anton in a compromising position, he returns to the bus and finds them both asleep, dozing in opposite bunks, their bodies turned toward each other. Chris still takes pleasure in shaking Anton awake and kicking him out of his bed, shooing him back to his own damn bus. But just a little.

It's only when he's undressed and under the covers that he recalls the time spent playing with Johnny—how much he laughed and how much fun it was. _And what did Zach mean by that?_ he ponders, right before he falls asleep.

*

"What _did_ you mean by that, anyway?"

Zach stops stretching for a moment and peers up at Chris from his bendy position on the floor, watching him pace back and forth across the room.

"What? Oh, my god. Stop trying to avoid the fact that you have a show tonight and you're about to have a major panic attack. I've seen the signs. I know."

"I kind of can't help it?" Chris wrings his hands as he continues to pace. They're much sweatier than he prefers them to be. "This venue seats, like, a billion people."

"I think it's a little less than that. Give or take a few million."

The fact that Zach's being his cheerful, pedantic self would normally be comforting, but Chris can't get himself to calm down right now. He's about to go on stage and sing his songs—his shitty, inconsequential pop songs about love and other bullshit—to the biggest audience he's ever had. The venue hasn't exactly sold out for the show, but even if it's halfway filled, it'll still be his biggest show ever. Hell, if twenty people show up, that'll be a personal best, too.

What's worse is that the grand total of times he's heard from Karl, whether by phone call, text, or carrier pigeon, remains at a pitiful zero. Chris supposes that he could call Karl but fuck, he really doesn't want to. Karl's the manager here, and therefore, he's supposed to be the bigger person. He's the one who Chris is paying to make sure that these things go off without a hitch. And that includes calling your client before his first major concert event to make sure that his insides aren't going to start eating themselves in terror. Chris is pretty sure something like that is written in his contract somewhere.

"Look, Chris," Zach says, interrupting his torrent of paranoid thoughts. "You're gonna be fine. Just picture them all in their underwear, if that sort of thing helps. It always just makes me horny, but people wouldn't keep suggesting it if it didn't work some of the time."

"Not helping," Chris replies, leaning against the wall and shutting his eyes tightly. He really is sweating a lot. The makeup people are going to murder him. "Like, not even a little bit. At all."

Zach exhales and throws up his hands. "Okay, fine. I'll go get Zoe."

Chris' head jerks up as Zach turns and walks out of the room, and he's about to call out an emphatic "NO" when he realizes that his throat is closing up and he can't quite breathe. So much for speaking. Somehow, the thought of Zoe intervening freaks him out even more. He doesn't want her to see him like this: a sweaty, trembling mess who dishes out all the advice in the world about going after big dreams, and then falls to pieces when his own dreams are laid out on a silver fucking platter, right in front of his face.

On a whim, Chris runs. He goes in the opposite direction that Zach went and quickly finds a dark, secluded room that seems perfect for an epic freak-out. Chris shuts the door behind him and sinks down to the floor, clutching his head in his hands. He tries to focus on breathing, in and out, in and out. This is his big break and he needs to calm the fuck down if it's going to go well at all. This is _everything_.

He's so wrapped up in himself and his racing thoughts, his thudding heartbeat, that he barely realizes that someone is there with him—that a voice is speaking to him. Chris flinches when he feels a hand on his arm, even though it's a gentle touch.

"Chris? Jesus. Are you okay?"

He dares to lift his head and the face attached to the voice shocks him. Johnny.

"Fuck, man!" he blurts out, jolting back against the wall. Johnny's eyes widen in alarm and he lifts his hands in the air.

"Easy, easy. I come in peace. Take a few deep breaths, okay?"

Chris does as he's told, working his lungs until his head starts to clear of all that painful noise. It takes a couple of minutes before he's able to speak.

"Fuck," he finally says. Again. Then he squints up at Johnny. "You can speak English?!"

Johnny purses his lips and nods firmly. "Affirmative. I appreciate you noticing. I feel loved."

Chris blinks, baffled. "All this time, you could fucking speak fucking English? And you said you couldn't?"

"I never _said_ I couldn't. You assumed. I grew up in L.A., for Christ's sake. You can Google that shit."

"But…the translator?" Chris asks weakly. He rubs at his eyes, confused and weirded out beyond belief. Johnny shrugs and self-consciously touches his shellacked up-do.

"I needed an excuse to bring Anton on tour with me. It gets too damn lonely otherwise. It's just easiest to do it this way and pretend that I need him for everything."

"Lonely," Chris repeats, still slightly bewildered. Then he laughs, pressing his forehead to his knees. He won't say as much to Johnny, but he was unaware that the guy was capable of feeling lonely—or feeling anything, really. "So what, you kept up the charade around me because you don't like me?"

Johnny frowns at that and scoots closer, folding his legs beneath him, the way he was sitting the other night with the Xbox. Chris feels a pang of regret for the fact that Johnny's in full concert regalia now, complete with stupid slitted sunglasses perched atop his head.

"I guess I'm just used to not talking," he says.

"That's crap, Johnny. I know you don't like me."

"Call me John," he says. "I don't know enough about you to dislike you. You're just some guy that they stuck on this stupid tour with me." He sighs and squeezes Chris' shoulder in a way that almost seems affectionate. Chris knows better, though. "Look. You're gonna be okay. I know you know how to play to a crowd; I've seen videos of you. Just go out there and do what you do. Take it one night at a time. And don't think about the big picture. Just…try to let it flow."

 _You actually watched my videos?_ Chris wants to ask. He swallows. "Yeah, okay. Let it flow. I can do that."

"Great."

Johnny—no, John—nods and gets to his feet after that. Chris watches him in slight awe. There's so much pressure riding on this tour, especially for John, considering that it's meant to launch his career in the States. In a way, Chris is just along for the ride. Yet John seems fairly unfazed, doling out his advice and shoulder squeezes like he's seen it all and done it all. Which he has, probably a hundred times over. There's a fleeting moment where the dim light hits John's face just right, and he looks incredibly tired to Chris' eyes, a heavy exhaustion settling in around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Then, just as quickly, it goes away and he looks young and untroubled again.

It occurs to Chris that John was also taking refuge in this dark and empty room. He doesn't quite know what to do with that.

"Good luck out there," John says, with a salute that Chris knows is meant to be sarcastic. He smiles gratefully, pleased to have a glimpse into John's actual personality.

"Thanks, you too. Not that you need it."

John pauses in the doorway and smirks. "I may not need it, but I'll take it anyway."

Then he's gone and Chris hears voices in the distance, calling his name, distressed over his whereabouts. He thinks of what John said and wonders when it stops feeling nice to be wanted.

*

To Chris' surprise, the show goes well. Really well, actually. It's early on in the night, so lots of people either haven't arrived at the venue or are being ushered to their seats as Chris performs. Still, it’s the most receptive crowd Chris has ever had. They pay attention as he sings, which pushes him to do his best, allowing him to feed off their approval. When he gets to "Catch Fire," there's a noticeable round of cheers and applause that makes him grin like crazy. Not only do they know his song, but they like it and they're happy to hear it.

When he's done, Zoe greets him with a loud squeal and an embrace that's half-hug, half-flying leap. She wraps her arms _and_ legs around him and squeezes him tightly, and he squeezes back for all that he's worth.

"Oh, my god. Oh, fuck," he says into her shoulder, giddy from the post-show comedown. "I actually fucking did it."

"You were _amazing_!" she exclaims. When he puts her down, she leans up on her tiptoes to kiss his face all over. "In-fucking-credible! We have to celebrate!"

"We do, fuck, totally."

Out of the corner of Chris' eye, he sees John wandering around with worker bees trailing after him, adding the finishing touches to his hair, makeup, and wardrobe. They make eye contact and John nods faintly, giving him a thumbs up. The gesture sends a surprising thrill through Chris; he never thought he'd be happy about impressing Johnny Sugar, but it's an undeniable high. Zoe's already making plans for shots, shots, and more shots, and Chris lays a hand on her shoulder, cutting her off with a smile.

"Actually," he says, "I'd like to watch Johnny's set first. If that's cool with you."

Zoe tilts her head and nods. "Oh, yeah, sure. That should be interesting, huh?"

"To say the least."

It's fucking amazing, is what it is. John is an absolute star on the stage and the crowd goes wild for him and his backup dancers—every twirl, back flip, and choreographed dance that they do. It's practically nonstop, complete with crazy multicolored lights and glitter explosions, and Chris finds himself awed by how John never seems to lose focus or energy, powering through showstopper after showstopper. Chris watches from the side of the stage and wishes he had that same kind of natural grace, that ability to make people's jaws drop. He also wishes he could understand the lyrics to the songs. He still has no idea why John solely writes and performs songs in Korean when he knows English perfectly well and grew up in California, just like him. Chris really should have consulted Wikipedia at some point in the process.

When it comes time for the break before the encore, John heads backstage to get a towel and Chris intercepts him.

"John, that was…wow. You're planning on doing that every night?"

He laughs as he wipes down his face. "Well, I've thought about going out there one night and doing slam poetry, but that's not what they pay me to do."

"I guess not," Chris says, feeling a little outclassed. "You're a dynamo, man."

John just waves him off as he gets ushered away. "See you after," he says.

But when the show is over, John is nowhere in sight. Chris, on the other hand, is all too happy to go outside and mingle with the fans. Most of them are waiting for a chance to greet John, but a few of them recognize Chris and are genuinely excited to meet him. Chris gives out autographs and poses for a few photos. He leaves with that same heady feeling of elation that he had after finishing his set.

"Baby boy!" Zoe calls from an open bus window as he approaches. "Shots await you! I've got a whole row here with your name on it!"

"Coming!" Chris yells back. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, distracting him. "Wait, hold on a sec," he says. Zoe rolls her eyes and motions for him to hurry up, before disappearing inside the bus again. He smiles and pulls out his phone, checking the caller ID.

It's Karl. Perfect timing, as always. Chris hesitates, his thumb hovering over the button. Then he turns on his heel, distances himself from the bus, and answers.

"Nice of you to remember me," he says. He wants to be angry—he _is_ angry, after all—so he paces and balls his free hand into a fist, pushing away the voice in his head that wants to say, _I'm so glad you called_.

"Chris! Jesus, I'm _so_ sorry. I haven't had a single moment to myself all day. I wanted to call you beforehand and wish you luck, I really did."

He swallows and looks toward the venue, where a crowd still anxiously waits for John to appear. "Well, turns out I didn't need it. It went great. So. Y'know. Thanks anyway."

"That's fantastic, Chris." Karl goes quiet for a few moments and Chris has to bite his tongue so as not to fill in the silence with something too sappy or forgiving. "So, things aren't going too badly overall, then?"

"Oh, you know. I'm stuck on a bus all day, suffering panic attacks about performing, and the choreographer won't stop hitting on me, but other than that, it's all good, sure."

Karl laughs quietly. "And how's it going with Johnny Magic Pants, then?"

"Fine," Chris says. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "I thought he totally hated me but he's finally acting like a human being now. And speaking English, since apparently he was raised in Los Angeles."

"…Huh."

"Yeah. He still dresses like a drunken raver clown, though."

"Well, that likely won't change." Karl pauses again and Chris can just sense that he's getting ready to say something devastating. He doesn't disappoint. "You know I wish I could be right there with you."

"Yeah, well, then why aren't you here with me, Karl?"

"Because." Chris expects to hear something like, _I'm too busy_ or _I have other clients, you know_. Instead, Karl sighs and says, "I don't know."

"You don't _know_?" Chris repeats.

"Well, I mean…no. I do know. Because this is something you should do alone."

"And here I thought it was because you were too busy doing stuff for your other clients. I didn't realize this was tough love. Thanks for letting me know, though. You know, it'd be nice if you actually acted like a manager sometimes instead of just constantly making me feel like shit."

There's an awkward silence. Chris hears some rustling sounds on the other end of the line and he leans against the bus, shutting his eyes and waiting for Karl to say something.

"When you get back," he finally says, "we'll set up a video shoot for 'Catch Fire.' And get it up on iTunes. I'm already fielding a few offers from labels."

Chris slumps backwards, taking a shaky breath. Karl does sound more like a manager now. "Fine. Great. Is that all?"

"No." His voice sounds farther away now. "Congrats on tonight. And call me if you need anything."

"Okay. Thanks. Yeah. I will."

It's not as nice as their last phone call, that's for sure. Chris hangs up and rubs his eyes, turning when he hears footsteps behind him. It's John, sneaking away to his bus, away from the eager folks by the venue who are still waiting patiently and hoping for an appearance. He looks kind of pissed and Chris cringes, wondering just how much he heard.

"Hey, John, wanna do some shots?" he calls. John turns his head, frowning deeply.

"I wouldn't want to look any more drunk than I already do. But thanks."

Okay, so he heard everything. After John stalks off, Chris sighs and makes his way onto his own bus, more than ready to drown his sorrows. He was having such a good night, too.

*

In the end, Zach joins them for shots. Which, surprisingly, makes the evening fun again. Maybe it's because—holy god—Zach can _drink_. Between him and Zoe, they both make Chris look like a total lightweight.

"Come on, Chris! One more!" Zach insists, holding up yet another full shot glass.

"You can do it, baby boy!" Zoe adds.

Chris attempts to wave them away from his spot on the floor of the bus. "Nooooo. I won't be able to sing for shit tomorrow night if I keep drinking." They groan their discontent and Chris tries to look as pitiful as possible, pressing a hand to his forehead dramatically. "You go on without me. Don't look back. Promise me you won't look back!"

"Look back where? All I see is another shot," Zoe says. She plucks it from Zach's hand and downs it in one go. "Now it's gone. Boo."

Zach takes the hint to pour another round. No, but seriously, Chris. You need to keep that voice at peak perfection. You were fucking _amazing_ tonight. I didn't know that talent existed in those scrawny l'il chicken legs."

Chris laughs, shaking his head shyly. "It's not in my _legs_. At least, I hope not."

"It's all up in you, all over you." Zach pauses to drink his new shot, shutting his eyes after he swallows. "Okay, yeah. I think that's it for me. I need to save my energy for whipping those morons into shape tomorrow."

Chris assumes that by 'morons' he means the dancers. "I thought they were pretty good tonight. Considering it was the first show and all."

"Pretty good isn't gonna cut it. I taught them better than pretty fucking good; I taught them total perfection. They looked like badly trained monkeys out there."

Chris smirks and looks over at Zoe to exchange a smile, but she's peering out the window intently, smiling at something else. She peels herself off the cushion and bends to press a kiss to each of their foreheads. Zach beams up at her and it's all too clear that somewhere along the way, when Chris wasn't paying attention, he became part of the family.

"I'll be right back," she says. " I left, uh, something outside. There's something outside."

"Oh," Chris says. "Okay."

As soon as Zoe wobbles off the bus, Chris and Zach scramble to the window, to see what she's doing. Chris groans when he spots Anton, boyish smile plastered on his face, hands in his pockets as he greets Zoe. She flings her arms around him exuberantly and kisses his cheek. Chris still can't believe that she likes the guy, even if he is charming.

"Oh, come on," Zach says, nudging Chris' side. "You have to admit that they're pretty cute."

"I admit nothing. Also, she's drunk and if he takes advantage of her, I'm going to rearrange his stupid, adorable face."

Zach laughs loudly. "He's _twelve_. I think he'll be over the moon if she lets him get to first base."

"I want to protect her, okay?" Chris says, pouting only a little bit. "She's my best friend on the entire planet."

"And, again, he's twelve. Zoe can take care of herself, I'm sure."

"I guess. I just liked Anton a lot better when I thought he was butt buddies with John."

"John?" Zach starts laughing at an insanely high pitch, throwing his head back and draping his body over the cushions. "Oh, my god. You should tell him you thought that; he'd fucking die from the embarrassment and the hilarity. But mostly the embarrassment."

Chris sighs and suddenly wishes he'd accepted that extra shot. "Come on. You have to admit, they're a little overly close."

"Yeah, but it's not like that." Zach shrugs and stretches his arms over his head, his body arching in a disturbingly feline way as his shirt rides up his torso. "If there's anyone that John wants to be butt buddies with, it's _you_."

"Uh…what?" Chris blinks and chuckles faintly, for lack of any other response. "You're kidding, right?"

"Um, hello? Why else do you think I haven't jumped those scrawny bones of yours yet, Christopher? You think I haven't noticed those baby blues sending me longing looks across the room? I know you wanna get all up on this." Zach motions to his hairy exposed stomach with a flourish of his hand. Chris bites his tongue hard to keep from exploding in laughter.

"…Okay, sure," he manages to get out. "So, what? John asked you not to sleep with me?"

Zach shrugs. "Not in so many words."

"Then what did he actually say?"

"Shit, I dunno. Does it matter? He likes you. He thinks you're a hot tamale. He wants to get into your man panties. Fuck it. Let's have another shot."

Chris blinks and watches as Zach slinks back to the table where the liquor is, thinking of John and how perturbed he looked after overhearing Chris' little jab. He imagines that if a guy he was crushing on said something like that about him, he wouldn't be too happy, either. But who even knew that John was crushing on anyone, let alone Chris? He barely acknowledged Chris' existence for weeks, for fuck's sake.

"Ha, yeah, I know," Zach says, which makes Chris realize he's spoken aloud. "He has a weird way of dealing with that stuff. It's like he thinks he's going to woo someone by treating him like he's invisible. Which would explain why I'm always getting laid while he's sitting in his bus, playing video games."

"Yeah, you're not exactly subtle." Chris sighs and accepts a shot from Zach, then gestures to let him know that it's his last. "I guess I just don't get it. I mean, it's not like John's ugly."

"Far, far from it."

"Right. But I don't know anything about him because he's so closed-off. Just that he's this big pop star who probably spends more time picking out his outfits than he does talking to other human beings."

"Costumes," Zach says. He lifts his own shot. "Not outfits. Costumes. Now drink that."

"Right," Chris says. He clinks glasses with Zach and downs it.

Later, they'll end up falling asleep in this booth, Zach leaning on Chris' shoulder and drooling all over him. Zoe will wake them briefly when she returns from her little adventure outside, kissing their cheeks tiredly before they all go back to sleep. But for now, Zach laughs at his own jokes while Zoe and Anton kiss sweetly against the side of the bus, wrapped up in each other's embrace, and all Chris can think about is John, nothing but a fuzzy shadow behind the window curtains of his bus across the way. John, all by himself while the rest of them grab this moment by the horns.

As if John can tell that Chris is watching, the light from the other bus goes out. As if he senses what Chris is thinking and silently replies, _You go on without me._

 

   
IV.

After that, Chris decides to put his new mission, "Get to Know John," into full effect.

They're having breakfast in a little diner off the highway somewhere, one of those tin-can places where everything is greasy and delicious. Chris ambles over from the bus and finds himself with the options of sitting with Zoe and Zach, or John and Anton. He ignores his instincts and follows the dictated rules of his mission instead, taking a seat in the booth next to Anton. Both Anton and John look at him as if he's got a fifth limb sprouting from his forehead.

"Morning," Chris says, trying to appear friendly. "It's okay if I join you, isn't it?"

John gives him a fishy look but then sips his coffee and doesn't protest. Anton fidgets beside Chris.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "Sleep in today?"

Chris laughs and motions to a waitress for another cup of coffee. "Yeah, I needed it. Remind me not to drink with Zach anymore. I have no idea how he manages to look as fresh as a daisy after _that_ many shots."

Anton cracks a smile but it slips away when John looks at them inquisitively from the other side of the booth. "Oh, uh," Anton stutters, and then begins to translate like a good little personal assistant, until John lifts a hand and shuts him up.

"We're beyond the point where he thinks I don't speak English. We, uh, broached that."

"Oh."

Anton blinks and buries his nose in the menu. Chris straightens up when he receives his cup of coffee from a passing bus boy. He cups it with both of his hands, letting the warmth course through him.

"Listen, John. I'm sorry about what I said the other night. What you heard me say, that is."

John shrugs one shoulder and speaks without looking up. "You're entitled to your opinion."

"Yeah, but it was a mean opinion."

"I wear weird clothes. I understand that. It's all part of the package."

"The persona," Anton chips in. John nods at him.

"Right. So if you don't like it, I couldn't frankly give a flying fuck." John puts his menu down and exhales testily, glancing around. "Where the hell's that waitress already?"

Chris blinks and hunches forward, as if it will help him get a word in edgewise. "It's not that I don't _like_ it. You've got your own style. And that's cool, man." He pauses when Anton laughs suddenly and turns his head, finding him scrolling through Twitter updates on his phone. "Someone tweet something funny?"

"Oh, no. I was laughing at you," Anton says, shrugging. "Sorry."

John scoffs. "Yeah, no shit. 'That's cool, man'? Thanks for your seal of approval, Pine, but I don't need it. And I certainly don't want you going out of your way to play nice out of some misguided sense of duty or obligation."

"I wasn't—ugh." Chris frowns and leans back again, away from the wall of sarcastic mockery. "Well, excuse me, your highness. What _do_ you want?"

"Eggs," John says blandly. He scratches his chin. "And bacon."

"That sounds good," Anton says.

Chris sighs and looks longingly at Zoe and Zach's table. "It does."

After the Most Awkward Breakfast in the History of Earth is over, Chris stalks back toward his bus with both hands shoved in his pockets, a dark cloud hanging over his head. He gives Simon a friendly pat on the shoulder as he boards, then heads to the back of the bus, where Zoe is sitting and scribbling in a notebook.

"Hey, baby. We missed you at breakfast. You hanging out at the cool kids' table now?"

He collapses into his bunk with a grunt. "I was trying to have a normal conversation with Johnny Ice Queen. Waste of fucking time. He still hates me."

Zoe sighs. "He doesn't hate you."

"Okay, he doesn't hate me. But ever since he overheard me talking shit about his stupid clothes, he's got some kind of vendetta against me. And it doesn't help that he's too smart for his own good. It's like he's always one step ahead of me and I can't win."

"So? What do you care? You don't have to talk to him."

Chris drapes his arm over his forehead and shuts his eyes. "I dunno. Zach put all these crazy ideas in my head last night about how John is hot for me or whatever, and then I woke up this morning with this half-baked plan to get to know the guy."

Zoe grins and taps her pen cap against her teeth. And, fuck, Chris knows that look. "Oh, so Zach gets you all hot and flirty over the guy and now he's _John_?" she teases. Chris tenses and feels a light blush rise to his cheeks.

"It's his fucking name, isn't it?"

"I think you liiiiiiike him." Chris grabs a pillow and throws it at her. "Hey!" she yells, batting it away. "Don't get all violent on me. I'm just saying—"

"Yeah, well, you're _wrong_. And so is Zach, for that matter. John doesn't like me one damn iota and I don't give a shit about him. He can just keep walking around with a stick up his ass, never talking to anyone. Because that's obviously what he wants."

"Oh, baby." Zoe pitches Chris' pillow back to him and then reaches up to rearrange her ponytail. "If you really don't care, then just forget about it. And if you do care, it wouldn't be the worst thing. You could use a hot fling after that whole Karl nightmare."

Chris rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Like I'm gonna have a rebound with the headlining act on my tour. Worst idea ever."

"I'm just saying. You're cute and talented and desirable, and Zach is pretty damn perceptive. So if you _do_ want to get with the guy, just keep being sweet and show off that ass, and I'm sure he'll come around."

"Why is everyone so fixated on my ass?"

"I dunno! Let's see."

With that, Chris ends up on his stomach with Zoe straddling his thighs, laughing helplessly as she smacks his ass repeatedly, like it's a set of bongos. "Help, abuse!" he yells, which gets Simon's attention in the driver's seat.

"Quiet back there, children! Don't make me turn this bus around!"

"Sorry, Simon!" they both call out, before bursting into laughter all over again.

"Ugh, I'm so glad you're here," Chris says, dropping his head back with a sigh. "Even if you're sucking face with a fetus."

Zoe smirks and kisses his cheek. "Me too. So glad that I'll even let that one slide."

"You're very kind."

"Tell me about it."

*

After the failed attempt at having breakfast with John, Chris decides to play it cool for a while. He goes back to eating his meals with Zoe, and Zach flits back and forth between the two groups, clearly the most popular girl in school. Chris doesn't exactly _ignore_ John, but he also doesn't go out of his way to engage him in conversation. John easily returns the favor. It sucks, but Chris figures it's easier than sticking his neck out and getting shut down repeatedly. He's not going to keep walking into a closed door.

He's also at the point where he's barely talking to Karl. The calls have stopped completely and now he just gets brief emails with links to buzz about "Catch Fire" and the tour. Admittedly, they're really nice notes to get. They've been increasing in number, too, so Chris often makes a habit of sitting down with his laptop after breakfast and reading the latest news about him. It still kind of shocks him that anything he does would be considered news at all.

Most of the articles Karl sends are gossipy pieces about how Chris is outshining the great Johnny Sugar at his own game; evidenced by dwindling attendance as the tour moves across the country, with turnouts for the opening act that rival the headliner's following. Chris _has_ noticed that the audiences are continually lackluster, in the sense that they're not filling up these massive stadiums and arenas that John's people booked. Whatever made them think that a pop star could get thousands upon thousands of asses in the seats, just by virtue of the fact that he's famous in another country, Chris isn't sure. Wishful thinking at its worst. But even these "small" crowds are still beyond any of Chris' wildest dreams. They sure as hell beat playing to eight people who all ignore him in favor of smoking and downing watery beers.

Chris can see it taking a toll on John, too. Rachel Nichols makes a surprise appearance at the Dallas show and drags John into a closed-door meeting, after which he emerges with a murderous scowl, ready to rip the heads off a hundred teddy bears. He even blows off Anton, who appears immediately at his side, ready to soothe John or fetch whatever he needs. That night, though, John hits the stage and gives the best performance Chris has seen him deliver yet—and Chris has watched every single one thus far. His movements are powerful, and he glides across the stage as if being pulled by invisible cables, so natural and fluid that it almost hurts to watch. Chris wonders if it's anger that's lighting a fire under John's ass or something else completely. It's like he performs best when he thinks he's got something to prove.

He knows he should probably leave the guy alone, but Chris can't help but approach John at the end of the night, to tell him how impressed he was. He finds John leaning against the exterior of his bus, smoking a cigarette and wearing a hoodie, even though the weather is way too warm.

"I didn't know you smoked," he says, by way of greeting. John looks up in surprise.

"I dabble." He offers Chris the butt. "Want a drag?"

Chris takes it gingerly between two fingers and watches John's eyes flicker down to the pout of his lips, wrapped around the filter. John drops his gaze quickly, though, and Chris clears his throat as he gives back the cigarette.

"I don't mean to bother you," he begins, "but I couldn't not bring up your set tonight. It was—"

"Terrible, I know," John interrupts.

"Um…I was gonna say 'fantastic,' actually." Chris laughs in surprise, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shit, man. I've got a long way to go if _that_ qualifies as terrible."

John shrugs. "Let's just say I'm my own worst critic." He puffs on the cigarette and now it's Chris' turn to let his gaze linger on the rosebud shape of John's mouth. John exudes overt confidence and sexuality onstage, yet he couldn't be more aloof once he leaves the spotlight. Even so, Chris manages to immediately pinpoint the sensual details that peek through the bundled exterior. John exhales and clouds of smoke gather in the space between them. "I have to keep pushing myself, you know? It's the only way I can…well. It's just the way I operate, really."

"Right," Chris says, nodding. He slips his hands into his pockets. "That's admirable."

"If you say so."

"Yeah, well, I do. I watch you out there every night and I'm kind of in fucking awe of you. You make it all look so damn easy. Meanwhile, I'm out there trying to remember the words to my own songs and not shit myself in the process."

John smirks and flicks some ash away. "As much as I would enjoy seeing that, you've done a good job of eschewing a diarrhea fest so far."

Chris bites his lip and moves a little closer to John. He wants to gush about this whole experience—how it's exceeded all of his expectations, how the media response is sort of making his head spin—but considering the day John's had, this probably isn't the time or place for that. The last thing John needs is some newbie musician going on and on about how exciting and grand this stuff is.

He's still searching for his next words when John suddenly speaks, regarding Chris thoughtfully.

"You really do watch me every night, don't you?"

"Absolutely. I learn a lot by watching you. Like I said, you make it all look pretty effortless. Like it's nothing."

"I used to sweat it a lot more," John says, looking down. "Back when it meant more to me."

Chris blinks, surprised by John's words and the fact that he's opening up at all. "It doesn't mean much to you now?"

"Well, you know. I used to go out there and do all that shit for me. And my family and friends, too. The people who believed in me. And then it became pretty clear that I wasn't doing it for me, even when I thought I was. It was more for the people who were controlling my brand."

Chris squints, trying to put the pieces together. "How did you become a pop star in Korea, anyway?"

"I was recruited, basically." John finishes off his cigarette and tosses the filter away. "I was a struggling musician here, and I uploaded some song I wrote in Korean to YouTube, and the rest is history. I wanted to be famous and they told me I could be. So I signed my life away. And here I am, famous. Busting my ass to become even _more_ famous. Because six million records aren't enough for my label."

"But breaking into a new market can only help you, right?"

"I don't need the help. It's hardly my music anymore, anyway. My people are more interested in seeing me kiss ass than make music." John sighs, looking over at Chris. "I'd tell you to beware of rookie mistakes but you're already sleeping with your manager, so there's probably no hope for you."

Chris' cheeks flush and he fidgets where he stands. "How the hell would you know that?"

"I overheard that phone call, remember? I mean, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but from what I heard…"

 _Asshole_ , Chris thinks. _Such an unbelievable asshole._ He turns away and scuffs his foot along the gravel-dusted pavement, thinking about walking away from John altogether. But then something compels him to explain himself—not that John deserves an explanation. "I _was_ sleeping with him. Before, y'know, all of this. Not anymore. Strictly professional now, as much as it sucks ass and I loathe it."

"Oh." Something indescribable passes across John's face when he hears that. "Well, uh. That's good. You don't want to mix business with pleasure. Road to ruin and all that shit." He pauses, his gaze roaming over Chris' body in a way that makes Chris bite his tongue. "Must be hard, though."

"Well, you know how it is," Chris says quietly. He leans fully against the bus and tilts his chin up to regard the meager amount of stars visible in the night sky. "You wanna make it in this business, you have to make some sacrifices. Blah, blah, blah."

"I do know how it is. I just hope it was your choice."

Chris doesn't know how to reply—doesn't want to admit that it wasn't his choice to break off things with Karl, not even a little bit—so he doesn't say anything for a while. They just stand there next to the bus in a thick yet comfortable silence, breathing in the last of John's secondhand smoke and the humid night air. In the other bus, Chris can hear Zoe, Zach, and Anton giggling over something, and he wonders if they're watching all of this and wildly speculating, as they're wont to do.

"I never thanked you," he says suddenly. "You know, for helping me out that first night."

John gives him one of those rare smiles. "Don't worry about it. I had nothing to gain from you passing out on stage and falling off your little stool."

"Your loss. Any publicity is good publicity."

"So they tell me," John says. He motions toward the bus. "Xbox? The others are going to be gabbing and braiding each other's hair all night; I can tell."

"Fuck, yeah. It's been a while since I kicked your ass all over the bus."

"Hey, this ass is off-limits, Pine."

That's not encouraging news, but Chris is pretty sure John is joking, considering the way he pats his backside as he says it. And it doesn't stop Chris from taking a gander as they climb the stairs to board the bus.

Okay, maybe Zoe was right about Chris harboring a tiny crush. But he's never going to tell her so. The fallout would be devastating, and Chris has enough on his plate right now.

*

The next day, Chris is roused by a series of _Call of Duty_ dreams by a phone call he doesn't expect. Someone rambles in his ear for two sleepy minutes before Chris registers that he's actually on the phone and meant to be having a conversation.

"Wait. Whosit? Karl?"

"I forgot how brain-dead you can be in the morning."

"Let's not rehash old times, 'kay?" Chris grunts and turns onto his back to get more comfortable, rubbing muzzily at his eyes. "I didn't hear anything you just said."

"Oh, you know, it wasn't too important. Just because a little television channel called MTV or something like that called and wants to interview you at tonight's gig? No biggie. Really, who's ever heard of them, anyway?"

The fog clears immediately. "MTV?! You're shitting me."

"Not even a little bit. They want to show up a few hours before, ask you some questions, shoot some footage of you rehearsing. Chris, it's going to be brilliant."

"Oh, my god." Chris sits up all the way, fumbling to hold the phone steady with both hands, which is difficult, considering that he's shaking. "Can I, um. Can we get Zoe in there, too? She's my writing partner; it's only fair that they interview her, too."

Karl hums faintly. "Well, the focus is on you, so do remember that. But sure, I don't see why we couldn't get Zoe a little face-time."

"That's so…fuck. I don't even know. It's _amazing_." He tries to take deep breaths, a huge smile threatening to split his face in two. "Karl, I don't know how to thank you."

"Hey, what do I always tell you, Pine? All of your success comes down to you. I'm just the messenger."

Chris sighs and wishes that Karl would stop being so dreamy, maybe for just a nanosecond. To Karl's credit, though, he keeps the rest of the conversation professional and doesn't veer too badly into ex-boyfriend territory, the way he usually does.

"You know, I'm not sure how much gossip your group has heard," he says, "but I thought I'd just warn you: The tour isn't exactly meeting expectations. You're doing great but Johnny's big move into the American market isn't happening anytime soon."

"Really? I mean, I know it's not selling out or anything, but the audiences seem pretty robust to me."

"Let's just say it's not what the powers-that-be want. You ask me, they're living in a fairytale land. They went about the whole thing all wrong. Aside from booking you, of course. Though it doesn't help them out if everyone leaves a show talking about you and not Johnny."

Chris thinks about his talk with John last night and cringes. No matter how much John pushes himself, it won't matter one bit if some corporate asshole somewhere decides to end his or her goodwill and cut the cord. "Damn," he says.

"Yeah," Karl agrees. "But you're going to be on MTV, so don't feel too morose. Just remember…"

Chris rolls his eyes. "I know, I know. No Young Republican clothes."

Karl laughs warmly. "That's right, Mr. Mayer."

"He wishes."

Zoe takes the news as quietly and professionally as Chris expects her to—which is to say, not at all. She tackles Chris to the floor of the bus in a burst of excitement, squealing and shaking his shoulders.

"MTV! Oh, my _god_ , Chris! You're gonna be on MTV? That's crazy!"

"And you!"

"What? Oh, no. Baby, this is about _you_. I couldn't—I can't!"

Chris laughs and grips her shoulders, shaking her back. "You can! It's primarily about me but I'm going to introduce you as my best friend and my writing partner and explain that you're the genius behind 'Catch Fire' and everyone will look at your gorgeous, talented face and instantly fall in love with you. Got it?"

Zoe goes doe-eyed, giving him a watery smile as the words sink in. "Okay," she says quietly, sniffling as she grabs him for another hug. "Got it. You jerk."

"Are you having a girl pile and didn't tell me?" Zach asks as he makes his way onto the bus. Then he kneels down and flattens himself on top of Zoe, making her shriek with laughter. "Make way, ladies."

Chris grunts beneath them. "You guys, how am I supposed to play guitar if I throw my back out?"

"Seriously! You're heavy, dancing queen," Zoe says, pouting. Zach pouts right back at her.

"I am not. And you don't want me to feel left out, do you?"

Chris smiles and pats Zach's gel-crunchy hair. "Never. We're just excited because MTV is coming today to talk to us."

"Oh, my god!" Zach wraps his arms around them and gives them a squeeze. "You two bitches are gonna be famous!"

"Well, it's about time!" Zoe says.

"Oh, _now_ you can't wait to have your name in lights," Chris says, grinning.

Zach kisses Zoe's cheek and then rolls off them, kneeling on the floor. "Listen, though. Don't brag about it to Johnny. He's kind of in a perpetual bad mood because his management isn't happy with how the tour's going and they keep giving him shit, like it's _his_ fault or something. So, you know. Keep it on the DL."

Chris nods and tries not to give away the fact that he already knows about John's woes. As psyched as he is about his interview, John is the one who was supposed to be featured on MTV.

"Yeah, sure," he assures Zach. "No sweat."

But they can't really hide it from John, especially not once the MTV reporter arrives, camera crew in tow, ready to shoot lots of footage of Chris and Zoe. Chris offers to take them onto the bus, where his guitar is, so they can watch him rehearse. As they board, he catches sight of John and Anton, standing outside of their own bus and watching with narrowed eyes. Chris can practically feel the jealousy and annoyance radiating off John. He knows, objectively, that it's not his fault, but he can't help but feel guilty as he climbs the stairs after the MTV crew.

John doesn't do so well on stage that night. The dancers outshine him and he doesn't seem to care, whereas he usually dominates the entire show. This time, the whole thing feels low-energy, lackluster. And he doesn't invite Chris to come play Xbox; in fact, after John stalks off the stage, Chris doesn't see him again for the rest of the night.

Zoe walks Chris back to the bus after he gives out autographs to the waiting crowd. "You shouldn't feel bad," she says offhandedly. "About John, I mean. Just because the tour isn't working out for him doesn't mean that you don't deserve all the good things coming to you. John had his time."

"I don't feel bad. I barely even know the guy. It's just…" _I see myself in him. I admire him. I like him._ "He works so hard, y'know?"

Zoe rubs his arm. "I know. But you're not him."

Chris isn't so sure. He licks his lips and glances again at John's bus, where all the lights have long been dimmed.

*

It's a little after eight o'clock when Chris hears a sudden pop, looks up from his laptop, and gets sprayed in the face with champagne.

"FAAAAME!" Zach sing-shrieks, shaking the frothing bottle in his hands. "Chrissy will live foreeeever! He's gonna learn how to fly!"

Chris wipes the foam from his eyes and laughs, turning away from the computer. His MTV story aired a couple of hours ago and he's watched it online about seven times already. Every second of it makes him want to cringe, but it doesn’t really matter because it’s on _MTV_ and tons of people—the ones who still watch _Jersey Shore_ , anyway—are going to see it. He took Karl's advice and tried to come off as earnest but not cloying, eager but not egotistical. Karl already emailed to tell Chris he nailed it. And, of course, as soon as Zoe and Zach caught wind of it, they made impromptu plans for a party. They have a blessed day off and Chris was looking forward to a relaxing night in a semi-fancy hotel room with an honest-to-god bed, but a little celebrating couldn't hurt.

"All right, stop wasting that and pour me a glass, will ya?"

"Well, duh," Zach says, producing a bunch of plastic cups. "This is the good stuff, too. I put it on John's tab."

"Oh, he'll love that," Zoe says, smirking. She searches her iPod and then attaches it to the hotel room's iHome, turning up the volume. "Speaking of the others, let me go grab them!"

Chris cringes. "You sure? John has been in such a bad mood. And Zach said—"

"Never mind what I said," Zach says, handing him a full cup. "John's a big boy. If he can't handle you getting a little well-deserved attention, then he's a jerk. Plus, Rachel finally convinced him to drop the whole 'I don't speak English' schtick and actually do some interviews, so things are looking up for him. It'll be fine."

"Then we have even more to celebrate," Zoe says. "I'll be right back."

Chris squints, watching Zoe dash out of the room, and drinks heavily from his shiny red cup. A few minutes later, she makes good on her word and brings back Anton and John. The former has attached himself firmly to Zoe's hip. John is dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans, smiling but looking a little shy and unsure. The T-shirt clings in all the right places, showing off the sick muscle tone that a daily regimen of nonstop dancing brings. And there's not a hint of neon color in sight.

He's never looked better. Chris bites his lip and tries not to stare.

"So, I hear we're toasting to some big shot in here?" John asks.

Zoe immediately hands him a cup of champagne. "Oh, we're doing a lot more toasting. We're drinking heavily, dancing, and blowing off steam."

"And it's much-needed blowing," Zach adds. "Like all blowing."

"I dunno," John says, peering into his cup. "I'm not really in the mood for dancing."

Zach scoffs. "You’re not? Since when?"

"Since I embarked upon a career of dancing every single night?"

Chris licks his lips nervously and decides to speak up before things tense. "Zach, it's cool. If he's not in the mood, he's not in the mood. He's entitled."

John looks directly at him from across the room—a little guiltily, if Chris is reading his face correctly. Chris doesn't get to gaze back for long because Zach steps forward and lightly pinches his lips together, effectively silencing him.

"Uh buh buh," Zach blurts, a halting command for Chris to shut up. "None of that. We've been on the road for weeks and you made a huge leap today, so we're all going to suck it up and party the fuck down. Zoe, turn the music up. John, drink your damn champagne. And Christopher, stop being so fucking humble. It may work magic on the pre-teens and housewives of America but I would much rather see you get shit-faced and take off your pants."

Chris doesn't miss the way John's head tilts in silent agreement.

"Fuck. Fine." He finishes the rest of his drink in one long swallow. "But I'm warning you: Once the pants come off, they stay off."

Zach rolls his eyes and refills Chris' glass with a flourish. "Oh, heaven forbid," he drawls.

An hour or so later and Chris' pants are still on, but he's shed his cardigan, due to the humid mass of body heat that's collected in the room. Zach, likewise, is down to a tank top and flashing his hairy pits at every opportunity, lifting his arms and declaring "This is my jam!" whenever his favorite song plays, which seems to be every song. Zoe and Anton are dancing together on the bed, drinking out of each other's plastic cups. Even John has joined in the festivities, grabbing a few dances with Zoe and showing off some choreographed moves with Zach at the others' urging. Chris honestly can't remember ever seeing John smile so much, and he's surprised by how much that mere fact makes him smile, too.

Right now, though, John is fairly quiet, leaning against the wall and drinking champagne while the others get their groove on to some choice Britney Spears, a.k.a. Zach's jam. Chris is the meat in a Zach and Zoe sandwich and he's pretty sure he's sweating through his T-shirt, despite the fact that they turned the air conditioning all the way up. He glances over at John and realizes, despite his semi-drunken haze, that John is watching him with those dark eyes. The look on his face sends a spark of heat right down to Chris' groin. It says, unmistakably, _I see you. And I want you. Right the fuck now._

"Zo," he whispers to Zoe, swaying closer to her. "Fucking my headlining act—suddenly not seeming like such a bad idea. Champagne talking, yes or no?"

She turns to him and grinds up against his thigh. "Who the fuck cares?" she whispers back. "He can't stop looking at you. The eye sex is intense. We can leave, you know."

"Nah. It's cool. I got this."

Zoe looks skeptical, but she smiles. Chris kisses her quickly, then proceeds to get his freak on, running his hands over Zoe's hips and thrusting back against Zach, practically molding himself to his body. Zach smirks and slips a hand under Chris' damp T-shirt, making him shiver.

"Lemme guess," he murmurs to Chris. "We're making John hot and jealous."

"Basically, yeah. You mind?"

"No." Zach sighs and pushes his groin against Chris' ass. "Always a bridesmaid."

It does work like a charm, at any rate. The next time Chris looks to John, he's definitely sporting some telltale excitement in his jeans, and he looks about ready to pounce. Chris' heartbeat speeds up as he extricates himself from the dance and tags Anton in. He pauses to announce, "I'm gonna grab more ice from the machine," and exchanges a knowing glance with John.

"Cool, man," Anton says, totally oblivious. "We could use more ice."

Zach is much quicker on the uptake. He practically shoves Chris toward the door. "Yes, please! That is _exactly_ what we need. Go forth, you sexy thing."

It isn't until Chris is outside, alone and holding an empty bucket, that he wonders what the hell he was thinking. John doesn't follow him into the hall so he stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, then goes to the ice machine and fills the bucket halfway. It's only when he turns on his heel to go back to the room that John appears, grabbing Chris' wrist and nearly causing him to spill the ice everywhere.

"Come with me," he murmurs. Like Chris is going to say no to that.

He lets John drag him to the adjacent room, _John's_ room, where the door opens with the quick slide of a room key. Chris puts the bucket down on the first flat surface he sees and a split second later, John crowds him against the nearest wall, his hands gripping Chris' hips possessively. Their crotches graze in a way that makes their mutual interest totally transparent and Chris lets a gasp slip out. The sound of it seems to make John's pupils dilate in response.

"You want this?" John asks.

Chris nods enthusiastically. "Yeah." He's a little drunk, sure, but not wasted, not enough to lose his control—just enough to say something stupid, like, "Since the moment I laid eyes on you."

John laughs but it's not vicious. It's a genuine little spark of happiness that lights up his face and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and as much as Chris enjoys the searing kiss that follows it, he also mourns for that fleeting, gorgeous expression. He grabs John face with both hands and slides his fingers into his hair, not as shellacked as it usually is, thank goodness. John's tongue feels like a slinky curl of fire, licking at the roof of Chris' mouth with a dexterous ease that makes his knees weak. The champagne is still sharp on their collective breath, but not as sharp as John's teeth nipping at his lower lip.

For one dizzying moment, Chris wonders how he got here, what this all means. Then John lays his palm on Chris' groin and all coherent thought fuzzes out like television static.

"You're such a liar," John muses into the crook of Chris' neck. "You know as well as I do that when you first laid eyes on me, you thought I looked like a—what'd you call it? A drunken raver clown?"

"Yeah, but a _hot_ raver clown. I'm not blind."

John grins and unzips Chris' fly. "Are you gonna talk the whole time I'm sucking your dick, Pine? I mean, I don't mind. I just want to make sure."

"Fuck. I mean, I could?" Chris exhales shakily and sneaks in one last kiss before John slides down to the floor and expertly takes him in hand. He's so distracted by the feel of John's warm hand around him that he doesn't notice when John goes for the ice bucket, the sneaky bastard. An icy-hot sensation surrounds his cock and his hips nearly buck with the shock of it, his brain shorting out for a few seconds. " _Shit_. Oh, god. Maybe not so m-much, if you're gonna keep doing that."

The ice melts pretty quickly, between the heat of John's mouth and Chris' engorged length, which strains for more with every teasing swipe of John's tongue and suckle of his lips. What the hell is John doing playing Xbox on his bus every night if he's so damn good at this? He should be out getting laid at all times. Chris whimpers under the unexpected onslaught of John's mouth and lightly drags his fingernails over John's nape, eliciting a low groan from below. John pulls off to lick slowly beneath Chris' cock and over his balls. Chris spreads his thighs wider and swears he can hear John sigh in response.

"I wanna see you fall apart," John whispers into his hipbone, peering up at Chris with liquid eyes. "Can I fuck you?"

Chris nods, licking his lips. "Good thing I don't dance, huh?"

"Exactly. It's strategy, Pine."

Chris laughs, practically falling into John's bed, which feels so natural, it's funny. All of this is funny, in a way—the awkward way he has to kick off his jeans, John's hair sticking up wildly after he sheds his shirt, the two of them in bed together to begin with. But the hot, slick slide of John's fingers into his body is no joke. Chris tries his best to watch John's face until the sudden curl and flicker inside him makes him lose all focus. He's missed this so much—being connected to another person, letting go of everything and catching _fire_ , just like the song says.

When they're both prepped and ready, John eases into him slowly; then it quickly escalates, just the way it should. Chris lifts his hips and holds himself taut. The angle is totally perfect in combination with John's lips and teeth roaming over Chris' chest and shoulders. Plus, John keeps teasing him, grazing his knuckles along Chris' aching cock until Chris grabs his wrist and squeezes with an incoherent plea. John murmurs something into a messy kiss and takes the hint, wrapping his lubed hand around Chris' cock, slick and tight and fuck, so damn _hot_.

Forget catching fire—Chris is consumed by it. He combusts.

Later, he's vaguely aware of the lamplight going out and a warm body at his side. Chris turns into John's heat and mumbles some approximation of "Is it okay if I stay?"

"Like I'm gonna send you back into the lion's den," John murmurs. He squeezes Chris' bicep gently. "Do me a favor and go to sleep."

Chris smiles and shuts his eyes. He can do that.

*

The next morning, Chris opens his eyes blearily, just as John is preparing to leave. He looks perfect in a tight tank top and sweatpants and Chris' dick stirs in sleepy but pronounced interest.

"Rehearsal?" he asks. John looks back in surprise and smiles.

"Yeah. We can't all have strenuous schedules of sitting on stools and strumming guitars."

"Too much alliteration for this early in the morning." Chris yawns and burrows into his pillow, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. "Screw rehearsal. I'm naked. C'mere and touch my penis."

"Bossy, huh? I like that." He pokes Chris' thigh and winks. "I'll be back soon to give your penis some TLC. In the meantime, I have to go prance around and avoid Zach's barrage of prying questions."

"Oh, god. I hadn't even thought of that. That's gonna be brutal."

"I know. Aren't I nice, taking the brunt of it while you slumber?"

Chris smiles and lightly kicks his leg. "You are. The nicest."

He dozes for a few more hours, then peels himself out of John's bed and makes the trek back to his room. As much as he'd like to wait for John, rehearsal will probably go long, as it always does, and his room contains all of the things that will make him feel like a normal human being: shower gel, deodorant, cell phone.

Speaking of the cell phone, when Chris finally finds it beneath a pile of bed sheets and rubble, he's surprised to find that he's missed six calls. And they're all from Karl. There are messages, too, but he ignores them in favor of calling and finding out what the fuck is going on. Karl answers on the first ring.

"Chris!" he exclaims. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"I was, uh, sleeping?" He scratches the back of his head and winces. The fact that he slept with John is definitely none of Karl's business. In fact, Karl is the last person who should know. And yet, Chris has this gross urge to tell him, to prove that he's not hung up on Karl anymore and rub it in his face. But he resists. "I see you called about a zillion times. Who died, man?"

"Johnny Sugar's career, apparently. The last of his major sponsors pulled out this morning. Tour's over. You're coming home."

"I…what?" Chris' mouth falls open in shock. He reaches behind him for the nearest chair, just to have something to hold onto. "But how can that be? He was starting to get interviews; things were looking up. I can't believe they'd just… How could this _happen_?"

Karl sighs. "It's too little, too late, I'm afraid. The tour's been bleeding money for a while and they decided to pull the plug. I told you this might happen, didn't I? But, hey, the good news is that big story here is still _you_. And, nothing's definite yet, but some of the sponsors are interested in sending you on your own headlining tour. A much smaller one, but it still counts. You're the hot ticket now, Pine."

Chris blinks, taking a moment to lower himself into the chair. His head is spinning and he doesn't know how to make it stop. "But…what about Johnny?"

"Well, it's a shame, but he's still popular in Asia," Karl says. "He'll just head back there and refocus his energies, I suppose." The words shouldn't pierce through Chris the way they do.

"Head back to Asia?" he repeats, wilting in his chair. Then, out of nowhere, he hears a loud, crashing noise from the next room over, and he remembers whose room it is. In an instant, he's out of his chair and hustling toward the door. "Fuck. Listen, I'll call you back."

"Chris, wait, I've got—"

He hangs up without another thought and books it to John's room, only to find that the door is locked. Chris calls John's name, knocking on the door. When it finally opens, John stands there and looks at him, angry and utterly wrecked.

"I take it you heard," he says. There's a slight waver in his voice. "What do you want?"

"What do I _want_? I want to talk to you, is what I want. What the fuck do you think?"

"Fuck. I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know anything." John turns away from him and Chris takes the opportunity to muscle his way inside. He freezes when he sees the room's desk chair up-ended, on the opposite side of the room from where it's supposed to be. There's a crack in the window, too. John snarls and paces around the room, presumably looking for something else to throw or break. "All I _know_ is that I busted my ass on this tour for weeks, doing every single thing they wanted me to do, and none of it was fucking good enough. It was _never_ going to be good enough. There’s no huge market for K-Pop here. Those motherfuckers set me up to fail."

"Jesus, John," Chris says, trying to keep his voice even and measured. "I mean, I knew the tour wasn't going well, but I didn't think they'd actually—"

"What do you mean, you _knew_?"

"I mean…my manager told me that it might not last. That things weren't meeting expectations," Chris says, repeating the language Karl once used. John's eye twitches as he moves closer to Chris, dangerously close.

"You mean you had insider information that the tour was going to go bust and you didn't tell me? Too private to discuss outside of pillow talk with your sleazebag manager boyfriend?"

Chris' stomach drops. "It wasn't like that, John. I never thought it would—"

"No," John says, lifting a hand. "I see how it is. You come on my tour and steal my fucking thunder, shaking your ass at me the whole time to distract me from what’s really going on. Meanwhile, I'm pushing myself to the limit for these people who don't give two shits about me anyway, and _you're_ the one who ends up on M-fucking-TV, peddling your god-awful, mall-rock bullshit!"

Chris flushes, the insults suddenly pushing away any and all sympathy. "Oh, yeah, like it was really my plan to swoop in and sabotage your big American tour. Maybe if you were true to yourself and not putting on a big act like a total bullshit artist, and—oh, yeah—singing in _English_ , you would have actually had some success over here!"

John's jaw tenses and he lifts his hands. "You know what? Last night was a mistake. A big mistake. I thought you were—that you…" He exhales and scrubs his hands through his hair. "I don't know what I thought."

"Me neither," Chris says blankly. "But then again, I don't know anything about you. You made sure of that."

John sits down on the edge of his bed and laughs weakly. "Jesus. Fuck you, Chris." His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and Chris is reminded of that first time they had a mutual conversation, when he caught John in a certain light and saw the exhausted human being behind that sleek, aerodynamic, superstar façade. "I can't fucking deal with you right now. Just leave me alone."

"Whatever," Chris says, the tight feeling in his throat back again, just like that day. "Fine."

He doesn't look back at John as he lets himself out.

It doesn't take very long before word has spread and everyone packs up their stuff again—this time, to make the long trek back home. Chris keeps getting phone calls and texts, most likely from Karl, but he doesn't have the energy or patience right now to check. He sits in the hotel lobby with his bags and waits for Zoe to finish saying her goodbyes to Anton, who it seems is going back to Korea with John. They both look fairly devastated and Chris can’t blame them. These past few weeks have meant a lot to everyone involved.

"Hey, baby boy," Chris finally hears. He turns and peers up at Zoe over his sunglasses. She's still holding onto Anton's hand. "I'm ready. Anton just wanted to say goodbye, since his bus is heading directly to the airport."

"Oh, yeah, right." Chris stands and shakes Anton's hand firmly. "Hey, man. All things considered, it was really nice getting to know you. Even if it didn’t seem that way sometimes."

"You too, Chris," Anton says, smiling faintly. "I'll keep tabs on your career. And, hey, good luck on your big tour."

He laughs awkwardly. "Ehh, thanks, but none of that is definite right now."

"Really? Johnny told me it was. Oh, well."

Chris squints, wondering if John knows something he doesn’t. It wouldn’t surprise him, considering how many secrets seem to float around in this business. It’s a learning experience, to say the least.

Anton leans over to kiss Zoe's cheek, murmurs in his ear, and then squeezes her hand before walking away. Chris instinctively looks toward the glass-paned exit, hoping to catch one last glimpse of John, but the bus' engine starts up as soon as Anton stows his bags and boards, so he must already be on it. As the sparkly vehicle drives away, Chris realizes he’s going to miss the ugly sight of it. He wonders if John is happy to be back in his comfort zone, a tinted window separating him from the world and anyone who truly wants to know him.

Zoe leans against Chris’ side and hugs him around his waist. After a long moment, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and hugs her back.

 

   
V.

"Yeah, I know we're supposed to head out in twenty, but I can't get his dead ass out of bed to save my life. Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Wake _up_."

Chris vaguely hears all of that, but it's the pillow thwapping against his head that really works. He opens his eyes, not registering what's happening or what he's seeing. For a moment, he thinks he's dreaming and that he's back on the tour bus with Zoe, late for a sound check or something else that everyone says is important when it's really not. But he's in his own bed, back in his apartment. The thought then strikes him that the past few months were the dream—that none of it ever happened and Zoe's dropped by say hi and eat breakfast before she heads off to Jonathan's place for the day.

When Zoe's smug smirk comes into focus, it all makes sense again. It did happen, every bizarre and fun and achy second of it, and when it was all said and done, Chris had a deal to make an album and Zoe quit her job working for Jonathan Groff, ready to capitalize on the buzz generated by "Catch Fire" and their MTV piece. Groff was great about it, wishing Zoe all the best and nothing less, wondering aloud what the hell took her so long to quit. Now they're just a couple of weeks away from heading off on their own tour together—this time, with Zoe as the opening act and Chris as the headliner.

It's fucking trippy, to say the least.

"I'm awake," he says, blinking hard and rubbing his temple. "I think."

"Good, because Zach says he's going to murder you if he doesn't get a latte soon."

Chris grunts and rolls onto his side. "Good fucking morning to you, too, Zach."

Zoe makes sure that Zach heard Chris before wrapping up the call. Once she does, she drapes herself over Chris and pokes his shoulder. "I told him we'd be a little late. But not too late, because we have a big day ahead of us."

"What's happening today again?"

"We've got lunch with Zach, then we go to the studio to put the finishing touches on your album, then rehearsal with the band, then dinner and clubbing with Zach."

Chris yawns into his hand. "Are we dating Zach now? Like, as a team?"

"Well." Zoe smiles but her eyes are distant as she shrugs and looks away. "It's not like I have anyone else to date."

He nods in understanding. Anton and John disappeared that last terrible day when the tour imploded, leaving so swiftly that just about everything important was left unsaid. Zoe's heard from Anton a few times but there doesn't seem to be any clear timeline for when he might come back to the States, if he ever does. Zoe's been pretty good about distracting herself with work and her new career path, but Chris can tell she misses Anton like hell, dorky vests and all.

As for Chris, he hasn't heard a single word from John. Even his "Johnny Sugar" Google alerts haven't turned up much beyond the fading interest in his failed U.S. tour. Chris understands that he's probably laying low and licking his wounds, but he'd love to know if the guy's actually, you know, alive. And if he's thinking about Chris, even a little bit, despite how terribly they left things. It doesn't help that Chris thinks about John every night when he falls asleep—how dangerously hot and heavy that last night was, and how John seemed to single-handedly rewire him into a functioning human being, if only for a few hours.

Try as he might, it hasn't been so easy to get that brooding raver clown out of his head.

"Hey," Chris says, rubbing Zoe's shoulder. "I'll always be your date. You know that. Zach, too, and not just because you make him look better by standing next to him."

"I do, don't I?" She smiles sunnily. "I'm so glad we met him. I never knew I needed someone to bum all my cigarettes and steal my cosmopolitans, but apparently I did."

"Just like I was missing someone who could give me pick-me-up gropes when I ask for them, and more often, when I don't."

"He might deprive you if you make him wait any longer for that coffee." Zoe pats Chris' ass and moves off the bed. "Get up and shower already. You smell."

"All right, all right," Chris says, waving her off. But as soon as she leaves the room, he grabs his phone from its charger instead and checks his messages. It's just something he likes to do before he faces the day. His usual amount of ridiculous messages is waiting for him. Chris sometimes misses the days when his phone would hardly ever ring, back when no one gave a crap about him or his middling musical dreams. No one besides Zoe and Karl, that is.

And speak of the devil, there's an email from his manager, wishing him luck on his last day in the studio and suggesting they meet soon to catch up over a drink, his treat. Karl's been extremely attentive lately, which has been good for Chris' ego but bad for his libido. As much as he wants to avoid spending alone time with his handsome and charming ex, he knows he has to bite the bullet or find himself a new manager already. And he's so incredibly busy, what with the album and tour prep and eating three meals a day. He really doesn't have the time to find someone new.

It's fun to kid himself like this sometimes.

Chris taps out a reply and cringes when Zoe yells at him from the next room: "I said, move your scrawny ass into the shower before I beat it with a hairbrush!"

"Not much of a threat!"

"Okay, I'll make Zach do it, then!"

Chris cringes and quickly climbs out of bed. Zoe's always been the scariest person he knows; Zach has wormed his way toward the top to become a close second. "Uncalled for," he says, hustling toward the bathroom at a much greater speed than he thought he was capable of.

*

"Chris. Hey."

Karl's smile is warm and open as Chris approaches his private booth in the bar. He looks just as good as Chris remembers, damn him, sitting there in a gray sports jacket and lavender button-down shirt that's hanging open quite a bit. The man always did have a problem with properly buttoning his shirts. It's unfair, is what it is. Chris shuffles forward and takes a seat across from Karl, taking off his jacket but leaving his scarf and hat on.

"Hey. Pretty swanky place you picked out here."

"Only the best for my best client," Karl says, lifting his drink. Chris guffaws, unable to help it.

"And how many times in the past did you take the opportunity to remind me that I was your worst client? And most demanding, I believe?"

"Well, now you're the most successful, so you can be as demanding as you want. And wear all the stupid hats you want," he adds, flicking the visor of Chris' newsboy cap. "Here, what do you want to drink?"

"Whatever you're having, I guess."

Karl nods and flags down the server, ordering two more drinks, while Chris marvels at the odd direction their relationship has taken. Suddenly, Karl is all business, and while it's nice that Chris' speech about him being more manager-like seems to have sunk in, it's also really weird. Chris isn't sure how to talk to him now. He's glad when the drink arrives, just to have something to distract him. Karl's got a folder full of papers out on the table, and he's flipping through them and pointing to passages of text like they mean something.

"So, I've been finalizing all of the remaining contracts for the tour, and—"

"Um. Hey, sorry. I don't mean to interrupt your train of thought, but…" Chris shrugs and runs his fingertips over the sweaty glass before him. "Can we just have, like, a normal conversation before we get into all of the logistics and things? I feel like we haven't done that in months."

Karl blinks and gathers the papers again, closing the folder. "Oh. Well, okay. I thought you wanted to keep things strictly business between us, that's why."

Chris looks down at his drink with a wry smile. _You have a terrible habit of always listening to what I say_ , he thinks.

"Just tell me how you're doing," he says. "Like we're friends."

"Friends, okay." Karl smiles faintly. "I'm good. Glad to have so much work to do on your behalf, finally. _Really_ glad I don't have to talk to the booking guy at the White Elephant anymore."

"Ehh, that's still basically talking about me. Tell me about you."

Karl squints and sips his drink. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same."

"Please?" Chris feels kind of dumb, begging Karl to discuss his life. But the truth is, he's scared shitless about his upcoming tour and trying to avoid any and all thought about what happened at the end of his last tour. He just wants a glimpse of how things used to be, a hint of normalcy. "I'm not asking for your ATM PIN. Just tell me how you are."

"How I am?" Karl repeats, exasperated. "I'm… I've been missing you, okay? When I'm not working on overseeing your career, I'm trying my best to forget that you exist because I miss every single thing about you. Waking up with you, your bossy little bitch fits…" He gulps his drink and exhales. "Is that specific enough for you? Personal enough?"

Maybe a little too personal. Chris immediately thinks of John standing in dim hotel lighting, wearing his tight little shirt, his usually monotone voice laced with amusement— _Bossy, huh? I like that_ —and colors slightly. It's only after that stray thought that he goes back to his memories of sleeping with Karl. That was fun, too. He remembers it well.

"Fuck, Karl. How many times do I have to remind you that you were the one to break up with me?"

"I know, which is why I was loathe to say anything." Karl drums his fingertips on the table, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I still reckon I fucked things up. But I promise I won't mention it again. Your success is important to me and I want to have a firm hand in it." Chris snorts into his hand and Karl pauses, laughing suddenly. "Do _not_ say something vile, Pine."

"I'm sorry! It's just…I can remember a few times you've had a firm hand in me."

" _Chris_ ," Karl chides, but he's falling quickly into a fit of giggles, rubbing at his temples as he tries to calm himself down. "Honestly, how did I miss that filthy gutter mouth of yours? I can't understand it."

"You loved my filthy mouth," Chris says, making Karl groan. "Well, you _did_."

"Yeah. I did and I do." Karl crosses his arms on the table between them and leans forward in his seat. "I meant what I said the last time we talked about this. I've waited for you. And if you want to talk about giving this another go, I'm game."

"I, um. I need some time to think about that. Things are a little more…complicated now."

One of Karl's devastatingly expressive eyebrows does a quirky little dance. "Complicated how? What, is there someone else?"

Chris purses his lips and tries his best not to say something too blunt, like, _I banged the drunken raver clown._ He mumbles into the rim of his glass. "I ended up having a…thing on the tour. With Johnny."

"You and Johnny?" Karl asks, dumbfounded. "I thought the nasty bugger hated you."

"I thought so, too. And he's not nasty. It just happened. Once. But he's back in Korea now and I haven't heard a word from him, so it probably doesn't even matter, but…"

He smiles wryly. "You left your heart in Sugartown."

"Oh, god, you're going to make me blush or puke. Most likely both."

"Let's try to avoid that, shall we?" Karl reaches for the folder again. "Honestly, I know I fucked up. And while I would like to try this on again, I understand if you need time to think it over. Or if you've got your heart set on someone else. In Korea. Across the Pacific Ocean. Very, very far away. Hey, did I mention I reside right here?"

Chris laughs and wonders how Karl always manages to be so goddamn charming. It must be some kind of gland that you only get through especially good genes. He bites nervously at his thumbnail and tries not to give away the fact that despite all of the givens about who's doing what and where, he still really fucking misses John. Even if it was only one night and he's officially the most ridiculous person on Earth.

"I appreciate the reminder. Thanks, man. I'll think about it."

"Okay." Karl cracks open the folder. "Now, let's make us rich. I've got bills to pay."

" _You've_ got bills? I put this hat on layaway."

"I didn't think I could hate it anymore than I did, and yet…"

Chris rolls his eyes and ignores Karl's smug look. It's going to be hard to pay attention to business matters after all that, but he'll give it a try. After tonight, he's got a shitload to think about.

And no way is he telling Zoe. No way in hell.

*

A week before the tour begins, Chris falls asleep on his sofa watching reruns of _What Not to Wear_. He wakes up when his phone suddenly buzzes in his jeans pocket and nearly tumbles onto the carpet below.

"The fuck is it?" he asks the phone sleepily. Then he realizes he has to actually answer the call. "Who is this?"

"Oh, my god," Zach drawls on the other end. "Don't tell me you were _sleeping_."

"It's late!"

"It's _nine p.m._ Is this your idea of the proper cultivation of a rockstar lifestyle? Because let me tell you: It's not. Do I have to come over there and start feeding you cocaine every night?"

Chris turns onto his side and groans when he realizes he missed the end of the last episode he was watching. He really wanted to see what became of Tanya, the sassy, fifty-something mother of three and lover of all things polyester.

"I'm not going to a club with you, Zach. Just call Zoe and tell her to wear something tight."

Zach sighs dramatically. "Well, I would, but she's busy tonight. With a _boy_."

"What boy?" Chris asks, brow furrowed. There's no boy. He would know about a boy if Zoe had one.

"Oh, you know. Some curly-haired freak with an alarming penchant for argyle vests."

Chris sits up so fast that he knocks three different remote controls onto the floor. " _Anton_ is back? Like, here, in L.A.? I thought he was with—"

"I know what you thought," Zach says, interrupting. "And, yes, he was. But now he's here. God, you're so out of the loop, Christopher."

"Uh huh." Chris bites the side of his tongue to keep from calling Zach every terrible name in the book. "So, fill me in. He quit his job? He left John alone over there?"

"Not exaaaactly."

Just then, there's an odd sound coming from the direction of Chris' foyer. It almost sounds like a dog whimpering. He stands up and walks slowly out of the main room, through the kitchen. Another noise startles him, a dull thump against the front door of his apartment. "Where are you?" he asks Zach, feeling more paranoid by the second. "Are you here?"

"As generous as it would be of me to come over and fulfill all of your saucy, secret fantasies, I'm afraid I'm not there, no. But I _was_ there. Recently." He pauses and Chris can totally hear him grinning like a shark through the phone. "I might have even left you a present."

Chris lunges for the door like there's a Girl Scout troupe selling cookies out there. In this particular case, it's not so much a bunch of little girls in matching uniforms, but rather an extremely disgruntled Korean-American pop star, all trussed up with rope and duct tape over his mouth. Wherever the hell Zach got so much heavy-duty rope is beyond Chris, but he's officially surpassed Zoe in the Friend Who Is Scary As Fuck contest. John looks up and makes a noise of protest, something that sounds a lot like, _What the fuck?_ Which is such a good question that Chris decides to borrow it.

"Zach, what the _fuck_?!"

"Don't you like it? I had it imported from _Asia_. Getting it through customs was a bitch and a half. Anyway, I'm going to the club to find someone who actually likes to be groped. Enjoy!"

And just like that, Zach has left Chris alone with his special delivery. He gapes at his phone disbelievingly for a few seconds before a loud grunt snaps him out of his confused stupor. John glowers and nods toward the knots around his arms and legs with a muffled sound: _Little help?_

"Oh, shit. Sorry!" Chris kneels down to get the knots undone. "Jesus, why did you ever employ Zach? Seriously. How did you even come upon such a person to begin with? Did you find him at the Home for Mentally Disturbed and Fabulous Boys, or what?" Chris pauses when he realizes John can't reply and rips the tape off his mouth without a second thought. The yelp that follows makes Chris cringe. "Um. Oops. Sorry again?"

"First of all: ow. Secondly, to answer your question, I was clearly out of my mind. Now, please untie me? I'm starting to lose feeling in my hands and feet. Possibly my dick, too."

"Uh, well. We wouldn't want that," Chris replies, lamely. In a few minutes, he's got all of Zach's oddly intricate knots undone and he helps John to his feet carefully. "There, free at last. Better?"

"Much. Thanks."

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, Chris fiddling with the scraps of rope in his hand, before he remembers to move away from the door. "Hey, uh, come in. Might as well, since you're here, right?"

"Right," John says, giving Chris the side-eye he remembers so well—and yes, missed madly. He steps into the apartment and looks around, rubbing the marks on his wrists. Chris tries not to look at them too closely. "Nice place. Kinda small. Thought you'd be on _MTV Cribs_ by now."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't too long ago that I was scraping together money to keep my electricity on, so. Haven't really gotten around to picking out a mansion yet."

"You've been busy," John says. It's a statement, not a question. He wanders over to the sofa and motions to it. " _What Not to Wear_ , nice. It's hard to get this in Korea. Mind if I sit?"

"Not at all. Want a beer?"

"That sounds good, thanks."

Chris goes to the kitchen, still in a confused daze. John is the last person he expected to see tonight. He has so many questions that he doesn't even know where to begin. He goes back inside with two opened beers and hands one to John before sitting, making sure not to position himself too close or too far. For a few minutes, they sit in silence, watching the travails of Barbara, a schoolteacher with a truckload of body issues.

"Soooo," Chris finally says, breaking the ice. "Remember how Zach tied you up and dumped you at my front door? What's up with that?"

John sighs and leans his head back against the cushion. "It's a long story." He rolls his eyes when Chris motions for him to explain. "Short version is: We came back, we went to Zach's because we knew where he lived, Anton abandoned me for Zoe, and Zach decided to leave me outside of your place like a FedEx package."

"Okay, but before we get into all that, rewind. Why did you come back at all?"

John looks back at the TV and sips his beer. "I quit," he says, plainly, like it's nothing. Chris boggles at those words.

"You…quit?"

"Yep. I was pissed off about what my label did to me, told them I wanted out of my contract, and when they said no, I told them all to eat my dick and booked the first flight back to the U.S. So, basically, you're looking at an unemployed, homeless, former K-Pop star. Who no longer has to wear day-glo green pants and more than one watch at a time, I might add."

Chris blinks and realizes that he didn't even notice what John was wearing—probably because it's so casual and nondescript. He seems comfortable, which is a good look for him.

"I…wow. I guess that explains why I hadn't heard anything about your work. But wouldn't your split from the label make the news?"

"They're keeping it quiet because it doesn't exactly make them look good. I'm sure they're working right now on some way to spin it so that they sound like the heroes and I look crazy."

"Well, that sucks. But…ehh." Chris shrugs. "It's Korea."

John laughs. "Exactly. And I think it's been proven well enough that no one here knows who the hell I am anyway, so who gives a fuck."

"Jesus," Chris says, laughing. "Glad to see you haven’t stopped selling yourself short."

"I live to please."

They exchange a quick smile and Chris feels all those fuzzy feelings rush back at once, a warmth spreading in his stomach that takes him right back to that night in the hotel, wherever it was that they were. The details don't matter, at least not the ones that happened outside of John's bed.

"So, okay. We still haven't exactly addressed the matter of _why_ Zach decided to leave you here like a package, other than that he's batshit insane."

"Well, that's the main reason," John says. He goes quiet, then, thinking and looking down at his bottle. "Honestly? He suggested we go to see you and I made a big stink about not seeing you, and he took matters into his own hands. With rope. Like you do."

Chris can't ignore the sinking feeling that erupts in his chest. "Oh, um. I mean, if—I don't want to keep you if you don't…"

"I was just nervous. I didn't exactly say nice things the last time I saw you."

"You were pissed," Chris says, licking his lips. "You needed someone to take it out on. I get it."

"Thanks, but you don't have to be so understanding. It was a dick move to accuse you of sabotaging me. Besides, you were way too green for that."

"Gee, thanks," Chris scoffs. He waves a hand. "Seriously, though. It's okay. I'm just really glad to see you again. I thought I wouldn't, like, ever again."

"Yeah, me too. Honestly, I probably put up such a fight about coming over here because I wanted to so badly." John smiles faintly and for a moment, it seems like they’re actually having a _moment_. But then he reaches out and pats Chris' knee and shrugs off the weight of their reunion in his obnoxious and endearing way. “But I'm here now. So don't cry, little bear."

"Not only will I cry, but I'll blow my nose in one of your neon shirts."

John laughs genuinely. "Oh, god. Please do."

They end up falling asleep on the sofa, leaning against each other. Chris wakes up at one point, after infomercials have replaced all of the decent programming, and realizes his head is tipped against John's shoulder. He briefly thinks about waking John so they can move into the bedroom, but that might not be a good idea. Plus, he's so snug against all the warmth radiating from John's body. He's still debating his decision when he closes his eyes and falls back to sleep.

In the morning, the warmth is gone and so is John. His phone blinks at him from the coffee table with missed calls and messages, the last one being a text from his escaped one-night stand.

 _Your phone kept buzzing. Woke me up. Thx for letting me crash._

Chris squints and checks the list of his recent calls. They're all from Karl.

"Fuck," he mutters, leaning back into the sofa. He taps his phone against his forehead and shuts his eyes. "Fuck."

*

"I don't know what to doooooo."

Zoe looks down at Chris, who's slumped over the table in despair, hands clenched in his hair, and curls her lip in distaste. Zach lifts his perfectly sculpted eyebrows and sips his martini.

"This is a hot mess," he says, flicking his fingers toward Chris and looking around the bar. "Can someone come clean this up? It's making me sad."

"What this _is_ , is bullshit," Zoe says. "I can't believe this is a difficult decision for you, Chris. Go back to Karl, the guy who left you crying into a can of pasta, or get with that fine piece of Korean man candy, who's here now and wants you like nothing else. Hmm, let me think about it for a few—oh, nope, don't need to. I'm already done. Because _duh._ " She reaches out and flicks Chris' temple for emphasis, which really fucking smarts.

"Stop attacking me!" he complains. "It's not that simple!"

Zach tuts at him. "I'm sorry, Chris, but that is not hot. Minus ten points for crying in the vicinity of canned goods."

Chris huffs. "I'm going to cry right now if you two don't shut up."

"Okay, enough. Intervention time," Zoe declares. She sits down on a bar stool and brushes her hair from her shoulders. "Christopher, my darling boy. I'm going to level with you. I know that getting back together with Karl seems like a fantastic idea right now and I honestly can't blame you. He's a decent guy who cares about you and your career. Not to mention hot as hell."

Zach's head lifts instantly. "Hey, no one told me he was hot."

"Of course he's hot," Zoe says. "He used to go out with Chris. You think my best friend has shitty taste in men?"

"Yes. He's never looked twice at me."

Chris smiles and pats Zach's side. "I promise I think you're hot, too, Zach," he assures him. A faint blush actually blooms across Zach's cheeks as he sips his drink.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Pine," he says, trying to look demure. "Except in my pants."

"Let's not get sidetracked," Zoe says. "The point is, I understand what he means to you. He's comfort in a sexy package. With a sizeable package, from what I've seen."

"Okay, I'm gonna need to meet this guy," Zach insists. "Because of reasons."

Zoe reaches out and cups Chris' chin in her delicate hand. "Chris. Remember all those pep talks you used to give me about having confidence and believing in myself? How you only wanted the best for me? It goes both ways. And I honestly think that going back to someone who hurt you so deeply, just because it's the easiest option, is the equivalent of you taking a step backwards." Her honesty shines in her liquid brown eyes and it makes Chris' heart clench, to see that so clearly. "You deserve everything good in this world. And that includes someone who won't hurt you."

The table goes quiet amidst the loud, ambient chatter of the bar. Even Zach, who usually has something to say in response to everything, looks between Chris and his cocktail without a word, hushed by the magnitude of Zoe's words. It's up to Chris to respond and he exhales shakily before he does, taking Zoe's hand in his own.

"You're so annoying when you pull this Fairy Godmother stuff. And when you're right."

Zach shrugs. "She _is_ right," though. Clearly, you should get with John and let me console your big Kiwi teddy bear after you dump his sorry ass."

"But…" Chris pauses, and not just for dramatic effect, though it comes through nicely. "John _hates_ me."

The collective groan from the other side of the table is deafening.

"Princess Dramapants!" Zach exclaims. "Enough with this 'John hates me' crap! John wants to ride you hard and put you away wet. He has since the second he laid eyes on you!"

Chris blinks, remembering that first meeting with John and Anton, and the way they whispered to each other. Maybe something was going on even then. They'd lied to him about the English thing, after all. "Well, maybe, but—"

"Anyone with working eyeballs can see the googly eyes he's been making at you," Zoe says.

Zach nods. "I had to literally tie him up and sling him over my shoulder to bring him to your place because he was _that_ worried that he was going to fuck things up with you. Funny how that worked out, isn't it?"

A hard knot forms in Chris' throat. He thinks about John waking up and seeing Karl's name pop up on Chris' phone and all the things that could have happened if that just hadn't happened—if Chris had been firm with Karl and told him no, and he'd never called, and they'd woken up, sleepy and warm and finally _together_ , and…

"Shit," Chris mutters. He gets up from his stool, so abruptly that Zoe startles, and fumbles for his wallet, throwing money down on the table. "I gotta—fuck. I gotta get out of here and find John. Where is he, Zach, still at yours?"

"Yeah, but probably not for long." Anton appears suddenly at Zoe's side and kisses her cheek. "When I left him, he was packing his things."

Chris pales. "Packing? To go where? Back to Korea?"

"Close. Texas. He's got some family there and he's feeling restless, you know, not having anything to do here. And since you guys are leaving in a few days…"

"Oh, my god." He's a little relieved that John isn't leaving the country again but shit, the _tour_. Chris had totally forgotten about that huge detail somehow. He can't hop on a bus again and leave his life behind without making this right. "I gotta go."

Zach slings back his drink. "I'll drive! Quick, pay for my drink! No time to lose!"

Chris grunts, throws down another bill, then grabs Zach and books it out of there. He can hear Zoe shout, "Good luck, baby!" behind him. He has a feeling he's going to need it.

*

An hour later, Chris feels as though he's going to collapse from exhaustion and defeat. And yes, heartbreak.

After a seemingly endless drive, during which Zach blasted techno and claimed it was good "motivation music," they arrived at his place, only to find the apartment empty and cleared of John's things. Chris cursed and stomped around and tried his best not to smash any of the delicate glass furnishings in Zach's living room, even though he really, really wanted to. Zach, the sweetheart that he occasionally is, offered to pour some wine and put on _Sixteen Candles_ or any other comfort movie of Chris' choice. Chris declined, hit with the sudden urge to go home and hide under his covers for the rest of the week, until the tour begins. Or until he has to pee, whichever comes first.

He took a cab home because he could, and now, walking up the stairs to his place, he feels a heavy weight settle over him. It crossed his mind to go to the airport and search for every departing flight to Texas—and he probably should have asked Anton where in Texas, exactly—but that sort of thing is reserved for romantic comedies and guys who are capable of doing more than strumming a guitar and singing sad, bullshit love songs. After the past few months, Chris was bound to run out of good luck at some point.

Which is why he nearly falls over in shock when he gets to his floor and sees John sitting on the carpet outside his door, suitcase and all.

" _John_?"

He looks up and gives Chris a tentative smile. "Hey. Check it out. No rope this time."

"But you…" Chris steps closer and looks at the suitcase blankly. "Anton said you were going to Texas."

"Texas? Why the hell would I go there? It's not like I have a hankering for barbecue or anything."

"You don't have family there?" When John shakes his head, Chris shuts his eyes and exhales in frustration. "Anton, what the fuck. That little shit." John laughs.

"Yeah, he can be a tool like that. Sorry. But, um, listen." He gestures to his suitcase. "Staying with Zach has been, uh, fun. You know, if you love hearing screechy shower renditions of 'I Will Survive' every morning. But it was really nice hanging out here with you the other night. I mean, I know I left in the most awkward way possible and that you're still kind of hung up on your manager—which is totally _fine_ and I get it, having met the guy. Hard to compete with a dreamboat from New Zealand, right? But since you're leaving in a few days anyway, I thought maybe I'd ask if…and you don’t have to say yes, but—"

"John," Chris interrupts, feeling the grin break out on his face. He never thought he'd meet someone who can best him in rambling. It's odd to think that there was a time when John didn't speak to him at _all_. "Of course you can stay here. C'mon, lemme…"

He extends his hand to help John to his feet, and when John takes it, his grip is strong. Chris can't stop looking at him once they're face to face, remembering that amazing warmth John radiated the other night, and soon, the urge to touch becomes too unbearable to ignore. He places his free hand lightly on John's side, enough to feel John's intake of breath. Instantly wanting more, Chris leans in to touch his nose to John's jaw, only slightly rough with stubble. John is still tense so Chris just keeps running his nose and lips over his cheek, back and forth in a calming motion, gently steering John's body to rest against the wall. When John's back makes contact with the gray-colored plaster, something seems to click. He turns his head and covers Chris' mouth with his own, sliding his hand down to the small of Chris' back and pulling him close. The warmth is back and Chris is awash in it as he moves into the source, the fire. John.

It takes a fair amount of fumbling around to procure Chris' keys and get him, John, and John's suitcase into the apartment. Once the door clicks shut behind them and the suitcase topples to the floor, they're on each other again, wrestling with each other's clothes as they gravitate toward the sofa. It's only John who's topless by the time they get there. Chris steers them so that he ends up on top, running his hands over John's bare chest as he presses him into the cushions and explores every centimeter of his mouth. John makes delicious noises beneath him, trying to work Chris' shirt open as he kisses him back.

"Fuck this plaid shit," he murmurs into the corner of Chris' mouth. "If you get to rag on me for all the neon, I'm taking digs at the plaid."

"Fair enough." Chris shifts to help out with the buttons and once they're undone, John pinches his nipples and kisses him deeply. The combined assault makes Chris' eyes roll back, his hips bucking forward. "Fuck," he says, panting. "Want you."

"You," John counters. Chris licks and sucks hungrily at his neck as John unbuttons their pants, making sure all underwear is down and out of the way of the business at hand. "Oh, yeah," John says, peering down at Chris' hardening cock. "You are definitely fucking me with that one day. One day soon."

"Well, if you're not going to be dancing this week…"

John laughs. "I'll give up dancing forever if it means I can have that dick up my— _fuck_." He groans as Chris rubs said dick against John's, and clutches him closer. "Yes. One day soon. But right now, this."

"This," Chris agrees. They fall easily into a rhythm and he moans, pressing his face to John's throat. "This _forever_."

"You romantic bastard," John says, chuckling.

It's good, _so_ good, and Chris kind of wants to kick himself, because _this_ is very well what could have gone down the other day, had he not been questioning things so much. But that's all over now. Chris only wants John beneath him like this, for as long as he can have him, every snippy and bitchy bit of him, and he thrusts harder, faster, realizing just how much he wants this. _Needs_ this.

"Come with me," he whispers. John lets out a throaty noise that singes Chris' nerves.

"Y-yeah, I'm about to," he says.

"No, the tour. Come with me on the tour. Be there with me."

"Fuck, you sure?" John asks. Chris snaps his hips forward and watches with awe as John jerks, his flushed cock twitching and glistening at the tip. " _Yes_ , okay! Yes, yes…"

Chris grins, claiming John's swollen mouth for another kiss and reaching down to take their slippery dicks in his hand. "Good," he murmurs, and John makes a strangled noise in response, rendered incoherent as Chris strokes and squeezes them both toward orgasm. John gets there first, scratching down Chris's back as he arches and spurts hard over his stomach. Chris is right behind him, though he doesn't want this to end—doesn't want to ever separate himself from the fire that burns right here, between their entwined bodies. He whispers John's name into his skin when he comes. John cups the back of Chris' head, his touch something to focus on as Chris shakes and sweats.

"Did you mean it?" John asks afterwards, when they're sticky and gross, yet unable to stop touching. Chris peers up at him and smiles.

"Of course. I know you probably never want to see the inside of a tour bus again, but. I want you there. And Anton, too. You know, for Zoe."

"He was already planning on going," John says, smirking. "And I suppose it would be rude to leave you alone with those two and no buffer."

"Extremely rude. Your parents taught you better than that."

"All right, then. You're on." John seals the deal with a kiss. "Is Simon going to be your driver? If so, I hope he doesn’t mind hearing nothing but Xbox and gay sex all day and night."

"Okay, it's official. Simon gets a raise."

"Already abusing your celebrity," John muses. "They grow up so fast."

Chris smiles and burrows closer to John, shutting his eyes as he enjoys the moment. "I'm a quick study," he says.

 

   
~

"Aaaaand we all live happily ever after."

Chris and Zoe look at each other, then back at the phone sitting on the table between them, which projects Zach's voice over speakerphone.

"That's your plan?" Chris asks. "You take him out to a club, suck his dick, and then it's 'happily ever after'?"

"Can't I live happily ever after with his dick in my mouth? He's just so _hot_ ," Zach whines. "Promise me you won't come back here after the tour and entice him with that perky ass of yours."

Chris stifles laughter into his palm. He has to admit, he's still not sure Zach and Karl would be a good match, considering how Zach is so… _Zach_. But now that Chris and Karl are officially done, he doesn't see why Zach shouldn't have a crack at him. That is, if Karl is need of a hot hookup with a sex-crazy choreographer.

"Baby, your ass is divine," Zoe says, always the reassuring one. "And Chris' ass is otherwise occupied. Have no fear."

"True. So how's the tour? I miss you guys like crazy!"

"It's great," Chris says. "Totally flying by. The fans are fantastic and Zoe has been killing it every single night."

Zoe looks down shyly and waves a hand. "Oh, please. I'm just warming them up for you."

"Honey, don't give me that crap. We all know how amazing you are. And how's your little man?"

"He's goooood."

Chris smirks. "They're disgusting, those two. Like a pair of cute, fuzzy, lovey-dovey kittens."

"Vom," Zach says. "And how about you and your man, Princess?"

"They're _way_ cuter than us," Zoe says. "Always bitching at each other like an old married couple. Stealing the ketchup from each other at breakfast and kissing when they think we're not looking."

"We don't do…that."

Zach sighs loudly. "Ugh. I hate you all for having so much fun without me. Listen, I know you're busy, and I need to go do stuff anyway, so keep having your stupid fun and knock 'em dead tonight and dedicate all of your future performances to me."

"Can do," Chris says, grinning.

Zoe blows the phone a kiss. "Bye, Zach! Love you."

"Love you too, bitches. Come home soon!"

It's practically become a daily ritual to talk to Zach on the phone. Try as they might, they couldn't really find a good reason to bring him on tour this time. Chris still has no choreography and Zoe's is nothing too elaborate. Plus, she has John to help her out if she needs it. Zach has been busy back in L.A. anyway, making arrangements to open a dance studio with John. They came up with the idea right before the tour started. Chris can't recall ever seeing John as excited about his own pop career as he now seems to be about the prospect of teaching other people how to dance.

They have a few more hours on the road before they get to their next stop, so Chris and Zoe part ways and board their respective buses. It was weird at first, not having Zoe on the bus with him, but she's extremely happy with Anton as her bunkmate. As for Chris, he swoons all over again every time he climbs the stairs and is greeted by John's scowling face.

"Sugar Pie, what's wrong?"

"I told you not to call me that," John says, typing an email on his laptop. He looks up and frowns. "Nothing huge. Just that we had this one space in mind for the studio and the landlord is trying to railroad us. Fucking dick."

"That's weird; Zach didn't mention it when we just talked to him."

"That's because he saves all of his gossip and flirting for you, and all of his bad news for me."

Chris takes a seat on the bunk beside John. "Less flirting lately. More along the lines of begging me to hook him up with Karl."

"I think you should. If anything, it's bound to be entertaining. And hey, if they get married, we can buy them matching hankies."

John leans over and gives Chris a quick kiss. Chris grabs his arm before he can move away and pulls him back in for another kiss, then another. He lingers on John's bottom lip, then smiles dopily at his former nemesis-turned-boyfriend. John runs his thumb over Chris' chin.

"What brought this on? Not that I mind."

"Nothing much," Chris says, shrugging. "I'm just really glad you're here."

"Well, who else is going to save you from panic attacks and hoards of screaming fans?"

"I'll be your Whitney Houston if you'll be my Kevin Costner."

John rolls his eyes. "Pass. I'll just be John Cho for a while, if you don't mind."

And after the past few years of being Johnny Sugar or whoever else other people wanted John to be, Chris thinks that he deserves nothing less. Hell, it's all he's ever wanted John to be. He's about to say so when Simon bounds onto the bus, still wiping crumbs from lunch off his shirt.

"Sorry I'm late, gents! You ready to head to Richmond?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," Chris says. It's another mid-sized indie club tonight, but that's way more Chris' speed than the huge amphitheaters. He enjoys being able to look out at everyone in the crowd at once, and he loves that he can see John standing at the side of the stage every night, watching his set and cheering him on. "Tally ho, Pegg."

"Tally ho!" Simon calls back.

The engine roars to life and soon both buses are on the road again. John puts his laptop away and yawns, stretching his arms over his head.

"So, what's on the agenda, Pine? Xbox, or…?"

Chris wraps his arms around John's waist and guides him down to the mattress. "Actually, I just wanna lie here for a while, if that's cool."

"Yeah, of course. An artist needs his rest now and then."

"Even awful mall-rock artists?"

"Even drunken raver clowns, my friend."

"Touché."

They lie there for a long time, looking out the window at the ongoing rush of trees, clouds, and sky. Just holding each other and watching the world go by, for what feels like the first time. Chris breathes in John's scent and the recycled bus air and feels as though—finally—everything has fallen into place. He tucks his nose beneath John's ear and sighs happily.

"I'm totally writing a song for you. In my head. Right now. About how pretty you are."

John pokes his side. "Shut up," he murmurs. "I hate you, you know."

Chris hides a little grin. "Yeah, I know."


End file.
